


His Own Humanity Chronological

by kuroiyousei



Category: Gundam Wing, Rurouni Kenshin
Genre: AU - Modern U.S. plus magic, Adventure, Alternate Universe, Ambiguous relationship status for main couple(s), Angst, Asexual Saitou, Drama, Established relationship for main couple(s), F/M, Feminism, Fluff, Friendship: Cathy & Trowa, Friendship: Duo & Sano, Friendship: Duo & Trowa, Friendship: Heero & Quatre, Friendship: Heero Duo Trowa Quatre, Gay Duo, Gay Heero, Gay Quatre, Gay Trowa, Get-together story for main couple(s), Homophobia, Humor, Importunate/insensitive Sano, In Nine Decades: Misgendering of a trans character, In Nine Decades: Some disparaging language regarding Catholics, In Nine Decades: Time-period-related insensitive terms, Introspection, Language (gendered), Language (general), Language (religious), M/M, Major character death (offscreen/referred to), Misunderstanding/lack of communication, Other relationship(s) briefly implied, POV: Cathy, POV: Duo, POV: Heero, POV: Kaoru, POV: Kenshin, POV: Quatre, POV: Quatre's father, POV: Saitou, POV: Sano, POV: Trowa, POV: a dog, Pairing - Secondary: Original male character & Relena, Pairing - Secondary: Treize & Zechs, Pansexual Sano, Physical fighting between Saitou and Sano, Pining, Pre-relationship story for main couple(s), Primarily conversation, Racism, Romance, Sano pursues Saitou, Sex (Explicit), Sexuality/sexual references, Straight Kaoru, Straight Kenshin, Straight Relena, Suicide (referred to), Surprise/forced kissing, Violence, Wounds/wound treatment, Wufei is a ridiculous character in this series, psychological torment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-22
Updated: 2020-09-11
Packaged: 2020-10-25 09:56:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 225
Words: 445,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20722316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kuroiyousei/pseuds/kuroiyousei
Summary: Set in the U.S. (plus magic) in 2010, this series features characters fromRurouni KenshinandGundam Wing. It should be readable without knowledge of either fandom (though some little references/in-jokes will go over your head). Many of the characters' names are slightly or very different in this universe.Sometimes I amuse myself by reading the series in chronological order, and thought I'd give others the same chance.





	1. Plastic Part 0

"I've had enough of this."

"Enough of what?"

"Don't play ignorant; you know what. You _knew_ she and I were to go driving today; you deliberately kept her out all afternoon so she would miss the appointment."

"So?"

"So?! So, you are _sabotaging_ my relationship with her!"

"And if I am? All's fair in love and war, my friend."

"You don't _love_ her. You don't care about her at all. You're just trying to make sure _I_ don't win her. You're being petty and shallow and... and _fake_. It's as if you were made of _plastic_."

"Oh, _plastic_, that _is_ appropriate. No surprise you should mention that, since that's all _you_ care about. You never behaved like this when we were _both_ poor, but ever since that promotion at the factory, you think you can just _buy_ everything you want -- a big flat, a motorcar, even a nice woman. You don't care about her either! She's simply another _object_ to you."

"Good lord, Duo, is this really about _money_? How can you deny being petty while you're saying such things?"

"_No_, this isn't about money... not entirely. But ever since you've _had_ money, you've become more and more disconnected with the human world and human emotions. You don't care about people anymore -- not her, not me, not anyone. You don't care about _anything_ beyond your damned work!"

"You'd probably better watch what you're accusing me of. You may not _want_ to find out just how much I care."

  
[Art by Link Worshiper](http://link_worshiper.livejournal.com/)


	2. Nine Decades: Tune In Next Week (1927)

These days you never knew if you would hear 'nursery,' 'playroom,' or something pretentious such as 'children's lounge' in reference to the young people's retreat in a wealthy household, but since Duo had never lived in such a house as a child, it made very little difference to him. 

He shouldn't have been forced to spend so much time in such rooms as an _adult_, either. Thanks, Trowa. 

Clarence had been directed by the housekeeper to the playroom, so called here, to wait while she located young Raymond and sent him in to get to know the visitor while their mothers -- old school chums reunited after one family's recent move to Ann Arbor -- chatted over coffee and cake in the parlor. Duo had never lived in a house with a parlor, and, due to his current form, didn't know much of them now. Thanks, Trowa. 

Examining the amenities in the small chamber that had more window than floorspace, Clarence waved Duo through the air in a vague flying motion as he often did, and ambled toward a large toy-chest and the much-abused rocking horse beside it. Instead of opening the former to see what interesting playthings Raymond, whose family seemed slightly richer than Clarence's, had stashed within, he sat on the latter, setting it rocking, and looked down at Duo. 

Duo wasn't so much a participant in Clarence's games as he was a focus for the dialogues the child came up with. Clarence would stare down at him intently, much as he did now, seem to take an endless amount of inspiration from the sight (Duo had always wanted to be inspiring simply because he was _portable_; thanks, Trowa), and talk his way, under his breath, through whatever adventure had popped into his head as a result. Sometimes the stories went on for days, though without much recognizable continuity. Judging by the look in the kid's eye, increasingly familiar in this the fourth week of Duo's time with him, Clarence aimed to start a new one, despite here and now perhaps not being the best place and time to do so. 

  


But before Clarence could draw breath to speak, the playroom door opened and another boy appeared. This must be Raymond, though he didn't introduce himself. Maybe he'd intended to, and maybe not -- ten-year-old boys could be little monsters sometimes, no matter how hard their mothers worked to hammer manners into them -- but in any case the sight of Clarence holding Duo completely distracted him. 

"Is that a _doll_?" With the confidence of the master of the house and someone that has never considered himself wrong in his entire life, Raymond closed the door and came inside, swaggering toward Clarence as he continued with rising skepticism, "As if you were a _girl_?" 

Clarence shrank a little and said nothing. Duo had seen it before: this child almost always chose to withdraw rather than engage. For this reason his father erroneously accused him of being sullen. 

Raymond, on the other hand, proved the opposite of sullen or withdrawn. He hopped around like a flea, examining Duo from all angles, poking at both him and Clarence, trying to rock the horse beneath the other boy, spouting further witticisms. "I'll bet you have tea parties with it, eh? Do you get it all dressed up and comb its hair? Catch me doing that! Does it sleep with you at night? Can you sleep without your dolly? I'll be a man someday, but I bet _you_ won't!" 

A deep crease had appeared between Clarence's fine, pale eyebrows, and Duo thought this might be one of the few instances he'd witnessed thus far when the kid would actually stand up for himself. Clarence hadn't wanted to come, after all, and to keep the experience from being _completely_ miserable he needed to say something sooner rather than later. But Duo couldn't have anticipated what he came up with. 

Technically the words were merely, "Go away," which made for the most basic of beginnings to his attempt at rebuffing Raymond and his taunts... except that they emerged in the magical language. They had little power behind them, and in any case only the most skilled of magicians could enact a spell without specifying the object at which it was directed, but the fact remained that Clarence had spoken in the tongue shared by all magicians, clearly enough for Duo to understand him easily. 

Duo understood, but Raymond didn't. Now he exhibited what Duo, from his human years practicing magic, recognized as the typical reaction of anyone hearing the magical language for the first time: he started and jerked back, disconcerted. And, given that the gist of Clarence's command had been understandable despite the words' incomprehensibility, and that it _had_ been a sort of spell regardless of its overall effectiveness, no surprise Raymond then took two more steps, his features writhing with fear, confusion, and defiance, and left the room. 

Clarence had allowed Duo to swivel into a position from which he could watch all of this, and now the doll remained pointed toward the newly closed playroom door and couldn't see the boy's face. He was conscious, however, of Clarence stretching his short legs out into the air in front of him before bracing himself on the floor again in order to rock the horse beneath in what seemed like a contemplative gesture. 

He was also conscious of an urgent necessity that either hadn't existed or that he simply hadn't been aware of before. 

Though Duo had only been with him a few weeks, so technically he _might_ have missed something (though he doubted he had), he believed Clarence hadn't shown any signs of magical ability prior to this -- and indeed, children seldom did, seldom had their skill awaken at so early an age. Which probably meant both that Clarence was unusually powerful and that Duo's presence in his vicinity had caused this awakening. And the temporary privacy in this playroom, before Raymond returned with further tauntings or it became time to go submit to the mother's selfish demands, made for a very narrow window Duo had no choice but to take advantage of. There was a good reason, after all -- a self-preservation reason, you might say; a security reason -- nature didn't allow magic into the hands of most children until after puberty. 

"Clarence," Duo said. 

The child went utterly still. 

"You hear me, Clarence?" 

"Yes," Clarence whispered, slowly rotating Duo to face him. Nearly his entire extent of eyeball showed in his pale face. 

"Don't be afraid of me, kid," Duo said patiently. "You know I'm your friend, right?" 

"But you heard all my stories." Clarence's voice remained choked and almost inaudible; lucky Duo was so close. 

"I _liked_ all your stories," was all Duo could offer to assuage him on this point. Trust such a private child to worry about his personal mutterings having been overheard before wondering about the magical talking doll in his hands. 

Shy and uncertain, Clarence asked, "Did you?" 

"Yes," Duo insisted. "But listen, Clarence. We need to talk about magic." 

Now Clarence's reluctance began to shed from him. "Is that what you are?" With even more energy he added, "Is that what I did just now to make Raymond go away?" 

"Yes and yes. And you need to understand how much danger you're in." 

"Am I?" Clarence made this far-too-interested-sounding query before Duo could continue. 

"Yes!" Duo's tone turned severe. "Magic can be very dangerous if you're careless about it! How do you think I ended up like this?" 

Clarence's eyes went wide again. "Are you under an enchantment?" 

"If you want to call it that," the doll grumbled. It was as good a description as any; he didn't really know the nature of the spell Trowa had cast to leave him like this. 

"Do you need the blood of a beheaded faithful servant smeared all over you to break it?" Exactly how serious Clarence was with this gruesome suggestion couldn't be guessed, but evidently he'd come out of his shell somewhat. "Did someone turn you into a doll? Could I turn Raymond into a doll?" 

Duo didn't like the expression on the boy's face -- something much harder than those rounded, juvenile features were fitted for -- nor the eager bite to his tone. Why did he so immediately envision perpetuating magical harm upon Raymond, whom he did not at all know? There _was_ something lurking beneath Clarence's shyness, it appeared, but sullenness was off the mark. 

And why must _Duo_ be the one to deal with this unexpected mean streak? Because his mere presence had caused Clarence's awakening and he happened to have a sense of responsibility? Thanks, Trowa. 

"No," he said firmly, "you can't. And you need to be careful about what magic you _do_ try. What you did to make Raymond go away just now wasn't a proper spell -- I think he was only startled, so he may be back -- but you _did_ speak in the magical language, and--" 

"And I can do it again!" crowed Clarence -- in the magical language. 

Duo winced internally (the only way he _could_ wince). "You see, that's exactly what you need to be careful of. The magical language is used to cast spells, and if you don't take care what you say when you speak it, you could end up casting a spell by mistake and hurting someone with it. You could hurt a friend without meaning to, or your mother..." Realizing Clarence might _want_ to hurt his mother, contingent upon circumstances and mood, Duo hastened on. "Or yourself. People can hurt themselves very badly when they cast spells by accident." 

"Hurt themselves how?" Clarence still sounded more interested than concerned; Duo obviously wasn't getting through to him. 

The doll pondered quickly. He didn't know how much time he had left, but doubted it was enough to make any kind of roundabout point. He would have to resort to something less than perfect honesty. "I'm supposed to be a human man, Clarence. You wouldn't want to be like this, would you? A doll who can't go anywhere on his own, can't feel anything, can't taste anything?" 

The tone of Clarence's negative made Duo fear he still might be contemplating how this could possibly apply to Raymond. 

Duo pressed on. "Well, the magic spell that turned me into a doll was an accident; my best friend did it, but he didn't mean to." In fact Duo had no idea this had been the case; he _hoped_ so, but couldn't and probably never would be certain. "You sure wouldn't want to do that to one of your friends, but you could just as easily do it to yourself -- turn yourself into a doll because you were being careless with the magical language, and get trapped like me for who knows how long." And in fact Duo disbelieved a spell like this could be cast easily by just anyone. He didn't know how Trowa had done it, but doubted Clarence would reach that level any time soon -- at least not without a powerful artifact or two, something Duo himself didn't seem to be. 

If Clarence's somber expression meant anything, he took at least some of Duo's words into consideration now. He sat silently for several moments, swaying the horse again with one foot and kicking against its rockers with the other. The resultant motion probably jarred him repeatedly, but Duo merely knew it was taking place; he couldn't begin to discern what it actually felt like. And finally Clarence spoke again. This time his tone sounded faintly wheedling, as if he'd gotten the incorrect impression of Duo as some kind of guardian of magic that could, if talked around, grant Clarence permission to do what he wanted with his newfound ability. "So as long as I'm very careful... and know what I'm trying to do so I don't do things by accident... and take care not to speak the magical language except if I want to do a magical spell... what kind of magic can I do?" 

Again Duo pondered. It might be wisest to downplay the desirability of magic at this point, try to dampen Clarence's interest in it... but how? He'd already indicated magic could do unpleasant things to other people; he couldn't backtrack and pretend that was untrue after all -- not in his current shape! He feared, however, Clarence might be even more interested in that unpleasant side of magic than in the more pleasant and convenient results it could accomplish that would have engrossed most other people far more. How to present magic in such a way that it would seem relatively uninteresting to a child of ten with a secret vindictive side? 

This wasn't fair. A friend -- and that term already exaggerated what Duo was to Clarence -- shouldn't be forced into this position; a relative or a magical mentor or anyone else that had voluntarily entered into a position of authority in this kid's life should be the one to lecture Clarence on magic and try to set him on a correct path rather than a destructive or a cruel one in his use of it. Duo didn't want to see Clarence harm or even kill himself or someone else with his early-blossoming abilities, but felt underqualified and very reluctant to deal with the problem. He was, however, the only one around that could do it. Thanks, Trowa. 

"You can do all sorts of things with magic," he began slowly, "if you don't accidentally kill yourself with it. You can..." He still scrambled for examples that would suit his purposes. "...black your shoes so they stay blacked... and..." He tried to remember what he and Trowa had used magic for before the disaster; for some reason he was drawing a blank. "...get your shirts extremely clean without having to pay someone to wash them..." 

Clarence's nose wrinkled. "That's different from turning someone into a doll, though." 

"Yes, well..." 

He didn't know whether he should consider it a rescue or a dangerous interruption that the playroom door opened before he could say anything more. Raymond reappeared, and, though he didn't hang on the handle or hesitate in the doorway, the swagger had disappeared from his step, and his expression instead displayed a healthy portion of both curiosity and respect. 

Clarence lowered Duo and looked at Raymond suspiciously without a word; the closed-off lines Duo already knew so well had returned to his face. 

Though obviously not the type to beg pardon, Raymond was also evidently ready to do anything necessary for the fun of the moment. He came forward a few steps, looking once again at the doll in the hands of his guest -- though this time, Duo believed, with far less disdain and far more readiness to admit there might be experiences in the world he hadn't had -- and finally, raising his eyes to Clarence's face at last, asked, "What was that you said before?" 

Clarence gave him a steady stare in return, and replied quietly, "It was magic words. I told you to go away because you were making fun of my doll." 

"Aww, I won't make fun of your old doll anymore." Duo guessed this was as close to an apology as Raymond would ever come. "Will you teach me how to say magic words like that?" 

"No," said Clarence sharply. "It's a secret." 

If anything, Raymond seemed more impressed than before, and probably not entirely convinced he couldn't winkle the secret out of Clarence, given time. "Well, shall we go outside and play? I've got a new ball and bat, but we can't use them in here." 

Clarence threw a half hesitant look down at Duo, who stifled a sigh. He'd had a narrow window, and it had closed. Hopefully he would have another opportunity; hopefully Clarence wouldn't become angry again with Raymond this afternoon and do something everyone would regret before Duo had a chance to impress upon him the dangers of careless magic further than he'd already managed. 

"Go play outside," Duo urged him. "We can talk again later." 

Clarence started, raising his eyes abruptly to Raymond, whom Duo hadn't allowed to hear. What expression might be on Raymond's face Duo couldn't tell, but after a moment Clarence relaxed. "All right," he said, and stood from the rocking horse. He gazed at Duo again, this time contemplatively, and after a moment turned, swiveling Duo's legs up into a sitting position, and set the doll down on the leather saddle he had previously occupied. He made no comment, but Duo, assuming Clarence planned on leaving him here in order not to have his behavior criticized until it was time to go home, felt his heart sink. He watched the two boys vacate the playroom, closing the door behind them more carelessly than conscientiously, with a sense of indistinct foreboding. 

He had no reliable method of marking the passage of time, which had already proven miserable in the four sleepless years he'd spent as a doll, but his eyes worked well enough, even if they were only painted on. Though he faced away from the window and felt no need to lever himself around, he could easily mark the change in the color of the light and the gradual dimming of the playroom while he sat, bored and agitated, on the rocking horse. Evidently far more time passed than he'd expected, far too much time to allow him to believe Clarence was coming back for him. And how had things gone outside with the ball and bat? Quite possibly Duo would never know. 

The shadows continued to lengthen, and details in this room, where no electric light shone, grew difficult to make out. If he'd had to guess -- and he sometimes did, though at other times too unhappy to make the attempt -- he would have said it was past seven in the evening before any sound of human habitation met his ears beyond the occasional distant voice or muffled footstep. 

Here came the housekeeper poking her head into the playroom, probably to be sure Clarence and Raymond hadn't made a mess she would need to attend to before seeing to other evening duties. Since they hadn't, she moved to withdraw, when it seemed her gaze fell on the figure seated on the rocking horse's saddle. With an air of curiosity she stepped more fully into the room and pressed the switch to turn on the light. Seeing with greater certainty what had caught her eye, a funny little smile took her face, and she strode forward to pick Duo up. 

After studying him for a few moments, she shook her head. "Well, they're not likely to be back for you... Left in a hurry, they did... I don't think the ladies got along too well, the snobbish cats." The world was veiled in dimming white cotton as the housekeeper tucked Duo into a deep pocket of her apron, and then complete darkness fell as she switched off the playroom light. "My little girl will appreciate you more anyway." 

So Duo was to change hands again. The housekeeper's daughter would be his fourteenth owner so far, and how long that arrangement would last he couldn't begin to guess. 

And what would become of Clarence, from whom Duo would undoubtedly never hear again? With no one around to give the child further information, to try to combat his unexpected desire to hurt others with his power, would he even survive his early magical awakening? Would he hurt some friend, or curse his parents, or burn down his own house, or turn himself into a teapot? This too Duo couldn't begin to guess. 

He hadn't wanted to be involved in the first place in Clarence's magical journey, but to be forced to begin and then debarred from seeing it through to the end was in some ways even worse. (Thanks, Trowa.) It reminded him of listening to an adventure serial on the radio, hearing every lurid detail of the catastrophic situation into which the heroine had been hurled by today's events, being told to make extra sure not to miss next Saturday's exciting episode in order to find out how she could possibly be extricated from this problem and escape certain death... and then never hearing one more minute of that particular program. Never finding out whether that heroine lived or died, whether justice was served, whether the tale had a happy ending. Even in a story Duo hadn't been particularly enjoying, that lack of closure both galled and disheartened him. 

But it was nothing new. Though he hadn't previously encountered the _precise_ problem presented by the precocious Clarence, nor any other with such a potentially disastrous outcome, every caretaker he'd had so far as a doll had been a story in progress, a dramatic serial whose second or even third episodes he'd been able to listen to but whose resolution he would never witness. Given the way he lived now, it seemed likely the only narrative whose ending he would be allowed to observe was his own. And his own tale -- his erratic, largely immobile, sensationless, bitter, meaningless life -- had it been a book, would have been the last Duo would ever have chosen to read through to the end. Thanks, Trowa. 

Even Trowa was a story whose setup Duo had been forced to witness as if to make his subsequent lack of knowledge of where things went from there, where they ended up, all the more wretched and unfair. 

As he bounced along in the housekeeper's apron heading toward yet another person he might end up calling a friend of sorts or in some aspects of whose life he might, at least, develop some interest, then eventually, inevitably be separated from just when he learned enough about her to feel the beginnings of curiosity and concern, he supposed it would be best to work to accustom himself to these unfinished stories. As a helpless doll, he saw no real alternative. He saw no likelihood of escape, of justice being served, of a happy ending. 

He saw no likelihood of _an_ ending, and he supposed he'd better get used to the idea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All Nine Decades illustrations drawn by the wonderful [lebzpel](http://lebzpel.tumblr.com).


	3. Nine Decades: The Gift of Friendship (1934)

"Why are you only using parts that have no pictures?" Duo wondered as he looked on, prompted by a late-arriving realization. 

Antonella paused, ceased her humming, and glanced critically over the newspaper page she'd already finished. Both it and the one she worked on now -- at least on the sides that faced up -- were solid walls of text broken only by slightly larger headlines. And while Duo supposed no gift would be much enhanced by photographs of murder victims or satirical cartoons of Adolf Hitler, there was usually a baseball image somewhere in front that might have made a pretty cheerful decoration with color added to it. 

But Antonella said, "I didn't want any pictures." With one small hand she gestured in imprecise elaboration. "They make it look different from when it's just words." 

"All right," Duo allowed, watching her return to her task with great care so as not to tear the thin paper with the green drawing crayon she held. 

Of course the Flores family could not afford actual gift wrap; honestly Duo wasn't sure who _could_ (or at least would be willing to spend money on something so impractical and extravagant). Even the drawing crayons, which had been a special treat to celebrate Antonella's seventh birthday, were a bit of a luxury, and that she now used them so extensively to stripe the two sheets of newspaper with bright colors to create this faux gift wrap demonstrated how much she was putting her heart into the endeavor. 

Presently, "I like red next to green," Antonella commented. 

"Yes, they look good," Duo agreed. 

"Maybe I put too many reds next to greens." She paused again to examine her work. 

The doll assured her, "I think it's all right." 

"I'll make some dots next." 

"That sounds good." 

Watching a little girl draw stripes across a newspaper perpendicular to the text, and now an uneven row of circles whose disparate size seemed to annoy her but proved difficult to fix, bored him, but not as severely as some of what Duo had suffered over the last eleven years. More than the boredom, in fact, he felt annoyance at this circumstance. Because he couldn't figure out why the Flores family was doing this at all -- why Antonella industriously prepared to wrap up one of the two toys she owned; why elsewhere in the tiny flat her mother had tied a festive ribbon around her more functional pair of shoes; why her father had rolled up, in preparation for taking it to the church, a scarf his late mother had knitted for him that he'd worn every day of chilly December up until this one -- when they were struggling just as much as, and perhaps more than, anyone else. If anything, they should be on the _receiving_ end of this gift drive, not scraping to find offerings for other people that might, for all they knew, actually be better off than they were. 

Antonella made a frustrated sound, and a gesture as if she might throw her crayon, though she didn't quite. "It's going to be ruined!" 

Nothing new to have annoyed her this much showed from where Duo sat nearby, so he assumed she must be referring to the varying sizes of the 'dots' she'd drawn. "Why?" He hastened to add, "I think it looks fine!" 

"I wanted it to be neat," she protested. "Like a _real_..." She evidently couldn't think of the word for what she meant, for she finished in frustration, "Like a real thing." 

"It doesn't have to be neat to look good, though." When this didn't seem to have any effect on the girl's mood, Duo tried, "And I think true artists prefer to make things different sizes so it isn't all the same across the whole thing. They do it purposely." 

"_I'm_ not a true artist," Antonella grumbled. But she seemed simultaneously somewhat cheered, and the look she gave the half-colored paper now assessed more than despaired. 

Such attempts to boost Antonella's sense of worth during her not infrequent moments of uncertainty were the most Duo could do for her -- offerings of friendship whose value he often doubted just as much as Antonella doubted herself. Unfortunately, even had he been human, he couldn't have done significantly better. Because _everyone_ was badly off these days. Duo had never been rich even during his normal life, had never managed to do more than scrape a living -- and had never wanted more. He might be coming to miss the ability to earn it, but money had never meant much to him. But even if he had it now -- even if he weren't a doll, and had somehow gotten his hands on a fortune -- would he be allowed to assist a little girl totally unrelated to him whose race and religion he didn't share? Would he be able to tell her how remarkable he found her generosity, and offer generosity of his own? Probably not. So his friendship and support, under the current odd circumstances, were all he could present her with. 

The look Antonella gave her finished project held only incomplete satisfaction, but Duo knew no way to encourage her more than he already had. Her perfectionism must make many of her life endeavors superb, but it often did her a disservice at the same time -- especially when combined with her pessimism. He worried a little about her, actually; that these traits exhibited so strongly in someone so young might actually bode badly for the future. But he would do what he could for her. 

She was analyzing both papers now, and after a moment began to touch up spots she felt needed some extra attention. Once, forgetting which color she held, she started drawing with the wrong one, and when she saw what she'd done she nearly threw her crayon across the room again. But in the end she did manage the final touches without too much frustration or self-loathing, and was now the successful possessor of two sheets of lovingly decorated gift wrap for this unfortunate project. Duo thought they would just fit, with space at each end for a small twist, around the wooden pick-up truck in whose bed he often rode during playtime. 

A large cigar box, its exterior decoration fading by this the second generation of its use, held all of Antonella's small treasures -- a few stones she'd liked enough to bring inside, numerous bottle caps, a snail shell, and so on -- and from this she'd already pulled all the string she owned in preparation for using it in the gift-packaging process. Now Duo was a bit surprised to see her turn the box slowly upside-down and tip its remaining contents into a careful pile on the floor nearby. Though her young, heartwarming sense of selflessness showed even further in this, and though there _was_ some appropriateness to the idea of a full truck-bed, he doubted these items would contribute much. 

"Are you going to put those in the truck?" he asked cautiously, not sure he could convey adequately to her that the gift's recipient -- or at least their parents -- might not appreciate being handed another child's random collection that meant something only to her. 

Antonella looked around in some evident surprise at the truck, which stood beside her opposite Duo. "Oh, that's a good idea," she said, and began scooping up her things and loading them into its bed. 

Duo's brows would have drawn together if they weren't, in fact, drawn on in the first place. If she _hadn't_ already been planning to put the things into the truck... "What will you do with the cigar box?" he asked, even more cautiously than before. 

Still working on transferring items from the floor to the truck-bed, she replied placidly, "Put you in it. The newspaper will work better on a box instead of on a doll." 

For several moments Duo was dumbstruck. He couldn't gape -- his lips moved, but he didn't really have a jaw -- but that would have been the proper expression of his feelings as it occurred to him that Antonella never _had_ stated her intention of using her pick-up truck for this; Duo had merely assumed that was the toy in view, and therefore never asked. 

"I thought..." he said at last, weakly, "the pick-up truck was the gift." 

Antonella paused in her loading efforts and looked the truck over studiously. "This wouldn't be as good of a gift." 

"Why?" 

She gave the specific frown that usually heralded an imperfect attempt at explaining herself. "Father Herrera said the gifts don't need to cost a lot of money." 

"All right..." That was rather a given in this economy. 

"And he said we should look for a gift that would make someone happy." 

"And you think I'll make someone more happy than the truck would?" 

"Yes, because you're my friend." Though she still seemed unsure of her ability to express the concept she had in mind, this statement was decisive. "I'm happy to have a friend, so someone else will be happy to have a friend too." 

"I... I understand." Once again his words came out very weakly, and after this he could say nothing more for another long moment. She might be right: a secret, constant companion and the support that companion could provide might well be the best present she could possibly give someone, far better than anything money could buy. But even after eleven years Duo hadn't grown accustomed to being treated like the object he now was, or his friendship like a tradable commodity. Antonella undoubtedly had no idea how dehumanizing her actions were, and in some ways that made it even worse. 

Knowing he must speak now before he lost his chance, Duo forced himself to ask, "But won't you miss me if you give me away?" It seemed so ironically sad to think of her giving up something she valued and drew strength from specifically because she valued and drew strength from it. 

She finished relocating the last of the box's former contents as she replied, "Yes, but Father Herrera said we need to use our hearts. Somebody might be very poor and need a friend more than me." 

Duo remembered the sensation of a constricting throat and prickling eyes even if he couldn't feel them, and his internal state represented several helpless emotions. He was angry because, with _everyone_ poor, why should one person get the preference over another in terms of commodities? Especially when it meant displacing Duo _again_ and removing what he believed with no false modesty to be a useful and supportive influence from Antonella's life? He was weary at the thought of starting all over with a new child and a new set of circumstances. He was touched more than ever by Antonella's pure charity and unselfishness, even if it actively wounded him. And though not in any real position to claim such a feeling, he was proud of her. He couldn't bring himself to protest her legitimate generous impulse even if he hated every moment of it. 

She'd placed the cigar box just in front of her and opened it, and now took Duo in her hands. She gave him a critical look, and for a moment he hoped she might be rethinking -- but then she wedged him into the box without comment. He wore makeshift clothing that had been cleverly put together by Mrs. Flores from scraps, and he reflected irrelevantly and glumly that, had he been wearing proper shoes -- made of anything thicker than cloth -- he wouldn't have fit in this space barely longer than he was tall. But he'd never had a pair of real shoes in this form, so that difficulty was nothing more than a distant daydream. 

He looked up at the little girl that had been his guardian for the past six months or so and said forlornly, wishing things could be otherwise, "Well, goodbye." 

"Goodbye," she replied, and swung the box's lid down atop him. 

In the resultant darkness he could hear the rustle and crinkle of newspaper being wrapped around his latest prison; he could hear Antonella beginning to hum once more as she worked. But he never saw her again.


	4. Nine Decades: General Dissent (1942)

While the grandmother had been busy making him an outfit -- a princely outfit in bits of velvet and lace, with canvas shoes that looked less like drawstring bags than usual, and even a little hat with a tiny plume -- Duo had, of course, spent some time with her. He hadn't spoken to her, but had overheard a lot of the remarks she'd made. Funnily enough, this hadn't prepared him for the granddaughter whose gift he was to be. 

"Every birthday for as long as I can remember..." She'd shut herself into her bedroom at last, seeming relieved to have done so, and now looked down at Duo with a wry, weary expression. "One of these years they'll have to realize I'm too old for this." 

And she was. Sixteen as of today, a tall, gangly girl in a lumpy dress with unkempt hair, she'd quite surprised Duo when he'd first seen her and realized _she_ would be his new caretaker. 

"I guess you can sit here with the rest of them," she told Duo, swiveling his legs outward and reaching up to place him on a lace-draped shelf alongside an extensive row of other dolls, presumably birthday presents from previous years. Then she turned away from him in an almost eye-rolling movement. 

This behavior fit with the attitude she'd exhibited downstairs during her grandparents' visit. Duo speculated it had been getting harder and harder for her, year after year, to respond with any degree of graciousness to these gifts she didn't want (and evidently hadn't even played with much as a younger child, if the state of the dolls down at the end of the line was any indication). She'd tried to behave herself -- the struggle had been visible even to newcomer Duo -- though her efforts might perhaps have been more for the sake of her depressed-looking mother than the grandparents that beamed obliviously at her as she politely examined her new doll and his clothing. _They_ might not have noticed a more open show of disinclination, but the mother was clearly anxious for the visit with her in-laws to be as smooth and pleasant as possible. 

Now the young woman, Ethel, abruptly unhooked the frock she wore, yanked it over her head, and threw it carelessly to the floor. That explained its wrinkled state, and the underlying cause of its lumpiness was also revealed: a pair of overalls, the legs rolled up to hide beneath her skirt, atop a short-sleeved shirt (plain-cut; no girl's blouse, this) that had also been invisible under the frillier bodice she'd previously worn. Next she roughly unrolled her trouser legs, then threw herself onto the bed with the air of one returning to something after an annoying interruption, and took up a book that had been lying there open on its face. 

While Ethel made her way determinedly through The Red Badge of Courage, Duo studied his new home, which seemed destined to be a very static one. This family evidently had plenty of money, based on what he'd seen both of the grandparents' home before this and the rooms downstairs, and Ethel's bedroom appeared comfortable, if a trifle over-decorated. Everything here was fluffy and lacy and milky (except where little embroidered flowers in pastel colors peeked out from various surfaces), giving the decor a soft, almost dreamlike quality that Duo found he didn't like very much. 

And neither, it seemed, did the room's inhabitant. Nearly everything in here -- from the long row of dolls on the white shelf to the various cosmetic products atop the lace-covered dresser to the framed picture of a sweet pastoral scene on one of the walls -- appeared disused and unregarded. The only parts of her bedroom Ethel seemed to derive any benefit from were the bookshelf beside the bed, the bed itself, and the large mirror near the bureau. 

This last Duo looked at longest. For Ethel had decorated it, to the point of partially obscuring the glass, with papers of various shapes and sizes, ruthlessly driving pins into its beveled white frame in a destructive manner Duo wondered whether her mother knew about. The papers seemed to be mostly letters, some long and some short, all much-folded prior to their being smoothed out and tacked up around a girl's mirror, many of them stained and probably difficult to read even if you happened to be close enough to try. 

Interspersed among the letters were a few photographs, mostly of a man in uniform but a few of groups of soldiers presumably containing that same man. None of the personal pictures could Duo see in enough detail from here to detect any family resemblance between the man and Ethel, but he thought he knew now the reason Mrs. Roanridge appeared so haggard and sad. Many people already looked like that less than six months after the U.S. had jumped into this new war. They'd looked like that during the last one too, the one that had been supposed to end all wars. It seemed a perfectly understandable bitterness. 

Ethel had been reading for barely fifteen minutes, kicking her legs and changing her position routinely and giving every indication of disinterest in her book except for lack of progress through its pages, when she dropped it, jumped up again, and came to stand in front of the mirror. There she waited, completely still and staring, for such a long time that at first Duo thought she must be perusing one of the letters tacked to the frame. But the eyes of her reflection roved too far up and down, seeking some mysterious object too restlessly, for her to be reading anything quite so small, and Duo decided eventually she must be examining herself. That was, after all, a mirror's purpose. What he couldn't quite determine, at least at first, was what she saw there. 

And then, in a gesture so abrupt it startled the watching doll, she snapped her right hand upward on a stiff arm in not a half bad imitation of a military salute. And he realized that her prolonged stiffness as she faced the mirror had not been merely the stillness of concentration; she'd been standing at attention. 

"Private Ethel Roanridge reporting for duty, sir," she declared, putting into her voice all the firmness Duo suspected she longed to use with her grandparents on her disinclination for childish birthday gifts. Then she began practicing her salute, which had appeared acceptable to Duo but probably not up to snuff to its performer or the imaginary superior officer receiving it. 

So Ethel didn't merely miss her father in his country-serving absence; she wanted to join him, to serve alongside him. There had certainly been people like that last time; Duo couldn't say he was surprised, though he'd never been one of them. During the previous war, despite the rampant patriotism and calls to support the effort going on around them, he and Trowa had considered themselves nothing like soldier material, and had avoided even the suggestion that they might enlist in what was proving an unpleasant experience for everyone; and Duo had come out of it with a dismal concept of war and some relief that he hadn't been more closely involved. 

This new conflict... He didn't entirely know how he felt about it. Here was, he had grudgingly to admit, one of very few benefits to his current form: he didn't _have_ to decide how he felt. At forty-four years old, he might be too old to serve, and might not... but in any case wouldn't be forced to make that decision. 

Now Ethel had stopped her repetitive process of saluting, and frowned into the mirror. She took a step closer to it, and this time when she lifted her hand it didn't snap off a gesture of respect and obedience from her forehead. Rather, she grasped at her clearly uncombed hair and pulled it roughly away from her face toward the nape of her neck. At first Duo thought she intended to tie it back, but he realized after watching her wrestle with it for several moments that she was trying to get an impression of her face without the long brown locks in the way. She appeared dissatisfied with her success, and threw more than one look of frustrated longing at something off to her right. Only after she'd done this several times could Duo hazard a guess as to what she contemplated over there: a pair of sewing shears lying atop her bureau. 

Finally, obviously resisting with a greater or lesser level of difficulty the urge to hack all her hair off, she did tie it into a low tail, though this still left her scowling into the mirror at the insufficiently militaristic effect she'd created. She stood once more at attention, however, smoothing the discontentment from her face with some effort. And she saluted again, perhaps even more forcefully this time than before, as if she'd been reprimanded. 

"Private... _Ethan_... Roanridge... reporting for duty, sir." She held her pose for a long, silent moment, then said as if in response to an unspoken question, "No, sir." Then, "Yes, sir." And finally, "Eighteen, sir." 

Duo experienced the mental equivalent of a shiver of discomfort and concern. 

For a few minutes Ethel continued to answer questions from nobody, though none of her answers were as telling as the first few. She continued practicing her salute as she did so, and the resulting impression was not so much 'accurate military personnel behavior' as 'desperate windup toy,' but Duo supposed that to be part of the reason she wanted practice. Then at last, after another disparaging glance at her hair, she turned away from the mirror and went back to her book. And it was her manner of doing so that really clinched it for Duo, that solidified in him the concern her words of a minute before had raised. 

For she didn't sigh, or turn forlornly aside as if from an impossible dream. She didn't untie her hair and let it fall messily back around her shoulders as a symbol of defeat. She narrowed her eyes slightly, gave her figure in the mirror a calculating once-over, then nodded once, sharply and decisively. It was as if a choice had been made, or even as if an agreement had been reached -- perhaps with some other self Ethel could see clearly in the mirror but Duo couldn't. In any case, Ethel obviously had a plan. Duo didn't know her well enough yet to assess just how serious she might be in pursuing it, but he definitely already worried. 

The tale of the brave young woman disguising herself as a man in order to enter military service -- usually in order to chase after some boy to whom she had a mulish attachment -- was as old as the hills, and as familiar to Duo as to anyone else. But it occurred to him now to wonder exactly how romanticized those stories were. Had women actually successfully done that in the past? And with what degree of difficulty and personal suffering had it been accomplished? And surely, even if it had been feasible once, modern military procedure must make it next to impossible now. 

He remembered when they'd opened up the draft to include men ages eighteen to forty-five just at the end of the last war because they'd needed the manpower; he hadn't heard how the current system worked, but, knowing the U.S. had only recently become involved, doubted they were likely to be that desperate yet... desperate enough, maybe, to overlook the presence of disguised women in their ranks. A woman attempting to enter the U.S. Army simply didn't seem practicable to Duo at this point. 

What seemed a lot more likely was that Ethel would, sooner or later, attempt futilely to carry out her plan, and would either be the cause of hurt and scandal in her family and their society, or get herself raped by some unscrupulous Army recruiter and _then_ be the cause of hurt and scandal in her family and their society. And in the unlikely event that her attempt proved fruitful, then she would have the dangers of war to face. No outcome of this venture seemed desirable, and apparently Ethel couldn't see that. 

Could Duo make her see it? He didn't know. Based on his reflections of just moments before, he had no idea what to say to someone in a situation like this. Because if she or anyone else made the decision to go to war -- admittedly a more difficult prospect, in her situation, than in many another -- shouldn't that choice, and the possibility of gruesome injury or death that went with it, be respected? Who was he to condemn someone for joining the army just because he personally believed war was detrimental to society and probably not worth giving up one's life for? With his own attitude on the business as a whole so uncertain, how could he think to persuade someone else to stay out of it? 

That particular aspect of the question didn't matter, though, since he still believed Ethel couldn't possibly con her way into the army without getting caught. What he would really need to convince her of was the futility of her scheme, the potential dangers of putting herself into a vulnerable position for the sake of something that wouldn't work out in any case. And fortunately, this seemed a much easier argument to make than any larger-scale social or moral rumination on the nature of war. 

In any case he would have to talk to her, and this in its turn brought up a whole new set of problems. Because, though he knew her not at all yet, what he'd seen of her so far seemed to paint her as not the type of person to take a talking doll very seriously. Her quiet frustration with a girlish present at the age of sixteen, her preference for overalls instead of a dress and a book about war instead of fairy tales -- even her daydream that, though unfeasible, was far more down-to-earth than what Duo believed sixteen-year-old girls typically fantasized about -- all this pointed toward an abundance of the practical and lack of the fanciful in her personality. Such people were often difficult to convince that magic really existed; regardless of what other explanation they came up with for Duo's ability to speak, they often lent very little credence to anything he had to say. 

If only he could write! He'd often felt that yearning, since in far more situations than this one penmanship would have been extremely useful. The ability to communicate with people in a manner that wouldn't disclose his status as an enchanted doll would put him two steps up the long ladder back to humanity. And in this case, he could write to Ethel's father, whom he guessed to be the strongest influence in her life, and explain the situation. Thus it _should_ be, after all; it wasn't fair that Duo found himself in a position -- and not for the first time! -- where, with his extremely limited resources, he had to attempt to mend a situation that should more properly have been tackled by friends and relatives of his human caretaker. 

Silently he sighed (more of a mental gesture, since without sound or breath the action had no substance). He would do his best. Though his life experience had been, by now, more doll than human, more acted-upon than actor, still he was in years lived more than twice Ethel's age... and arguably wiser. He wouldn't abandon her to her fate simply because he felt awkward about it, passively look the other way while she destroyed herself. He just had to figure out what to say and how best to say it. 

And _when_ best. It seemed unwise to alert her to his sentience _today_, when she'd only barely taken possession of him, and if he kept an eye on her for a while he was likelier to get a more complete impression of her specific attitudes and intentions. Sooner or later he would have to introduce himself, but later might turn out to be the best option, and that relieved his mind somewhat. 

And possibly he wouldn't have to talk to her at all, at least about this issue. Unless she was considerably less intelligent than she'd seemed so far, she must be fully aware that, though she might be able to pass for a young man, she wouldn't be able to pass for a young man old enough to fight in a war for a while yet. She would _have to_ wait until some time had passed -- probably until she was eighteen, as her earlier apostrophic dialogue had hinted. That was exactly two years away, so perhaps Duo had nothing to worry about. The war had already been on since 1939; with the U.S. involved now, surely it couldn't continue for another two years, could it?


	5. Nine Decades: Missing (1955)

Duo lay on his face, not at all an unusual attitude for him. Unless someone had kindly left him in a sitting position or propped him up standing, on his back or on his face remained his only options when people unfamiliar with his ability to move were around. He'd grown accustomed to it. He _did_ rather wish the carpet were thicker, as it might have provided some muffling effect for the incredibly boring conversation that was all he could hear at the moment. This Saturday apparently blazed enticingly, but not too oppressively, as many weekends had all autumn, drawing his kid outside without him to play, leaving him to listen to the father and the uncle talking dullness as usual. Duo had grown accustomed to that too, but on this particular day he longed for something more interesting, or at least that they would turn on the radio. He doubted he would be in any luck with either wish. 

Today was Trowa's birthday, and Duo had -- rather unwillingly -- developed a tradition over the last couple of decades of dwelling pretty obsessively on his old friend throughout this day (whenever he happened to be aware of the date), and sometimes on the days surrounding it. It couldn't be healthy, and certainly wasn't cheerful, but he had no choice. Unless something massive arose to distract him -- and that conversation in the armchairs over there definitely didn't qualify -- no thought he could come up with, no memories even from such an unusual life as he'd lived, could engross him the way these thoughts of Trowa did on this day every year. 

"If only we could count on someone other than that silly gal over at Hopkins' for the flyers," the uncle was complaining. Women weren't the only targets of his rudeness, but they were the most common. 

What, Duo wondered, did Trowa look like nowadays? Thirty to forty years ago, Trowa had embraced the aggressively slicked-back style that had been so popular in men's hair at that time, using first petroleum and then (when he'd been better able to afford it) that disgusting Brilliantine stuff to create a shiny, plastered-down impression... but that trend had, thankfully, evolved into something slightly less awful, so Trowa _must_ be sporting a different look. 

"Well," said the father, his voice thick with the same disapproval his brother-in-law had expressed, "she seems to be the only one around here who knows the trick of getting magical text onto a mundane printing." 

For his part, Duo had always resisted any style that threatened his braid, regardless of how fashionable or unfashionable he subsequently appeared, and had _especially_ resisted the trend of putting slimy stuff into his luxurious hair. It was vanity, of course, every bit as much as Trowa's careful parting and fad-conforming oiliness... but he knew Trowa had loved his braid too. That, he thought, had been a secret part of why he'd been so unwilling to relinquish it. He'd made the occasional joke that he wore it to give the ladies some alternative to the helmet-hair, but in reality it had been to some extent to please Trowa. And he also believed it had been Trowa's strong preference for his braid that had allowed it to remain the same even in doll form -- just another cruel little trick of the spell, really. 

"If there were _anyone_ else... If only one of us could do it... You can't trust a woman to understand how important this is, or anything having to do with politics." This sort of talk consistently prevented Duo from revealing himself to these guys. 

Of course these days -- today, in fact -- Trowa would be 57 years old. How much hair would he have left? It must be all grey by now in any case. It distressed Duo, to an extent that surprised him and struck him as more than a little absurd, that he didn't know what pattern Trowa might have gone bald in. And what kind of wrinkles did he have? Had his eyesight deteriorated -- did he need glasses? How about his teeth? These were all ridiculously mundane considerations, but every once in a while Duo wondered about them with a fervor to match his own desire to be human again. 

"She'll just have to have very specific instructions on how we want them to look. If everything is laid out for her in simple language, she should be able to manage it. And Hopkins himself will take care of the physical printing, so we won't have to worry about that part." 

And what was Trowa likely to be up to now? Had he stayed at that same factory, perhaps been promoted even higher, and made more and more money over the years? Duo could picture him as the overseer of multiple facilities, raking in the dough, respected and sought after by everyone. 

"Do you think we should be concentrating more on the mundane voters?" In this the uncle didn't truly ask his in-law for advice or even opinion; he merely sought agreement with what he already believed and intended. 

But perhaps Trowa had moved on, left Raberba Manufacturing behind, and gotten into something new. He'd been so good at so many things, there seemed endless possibilities as to what profession he might have entered. He'd always been quietly, admirably dedicated to helping others -- especially homeless waifs such as he'd once been -- but, interestingly enough, it had always seemed to come from a sense of responsibility rather than kindness: where he had the capacity to help, he felt it his duty to do so. Maybe he'd gotten involved in something like that. There would probably be far less money in it than in the by-now-booming plastics industry, but it might fit better with his ideas of rightness. 

"No, let his staff handle that side of things. That's what they're paid for. And his platform is solid enough." 

Had Trowa, Duo wondered with a faint mental sense somewhat similar to the old one of bodily illness, ever married? He could easily have grandchildren by now if he had. He'd always seemed to like women well enough... maybe, with Duo out of the way, he'd married the one -- what had her name been? -- that had come between them so long ago. Maybe he'd bought her all sorts of nice things, wooed her properly, and made a home for them both with his vast amounts of money. Or maybe he'd left that city, left her behind, and eventually met someone else. Duo couldn't imagine someone as clever and right-thinking and handsome (even with the slicked-down hair) as Trowa remaining single for long. 

"'Solid?'" the uncle echoed. Pompously he declared, "Elmo R. Beard is gonna accomplish more than any mayor we've ever had." 

Or had Trowa, perhaps, turned out to be attracted to men just as Duo had? That was almost more painful to think about than the idea of his making a happy domestic life with some woman Duo had never met, because it would mean there might have been a chance for them if things had been different. It had taken Duo twenty years to realize he loved Trowa, but he would probably never know whether Trowa, for all he'd loved Duo's braid, had ever loved _Duo_. Even if he had, he'd surely recovered, moved on to something else Duo didn't want to think about. _Duo_ hadn't recovered yet, but that was hardly a surprise in his unchanging life. By now, however, all such old feelings that partook of his previous frame of reference were more or less mummified, and he supposed he _would_ recover eventually. 

"Absolutely," the father agreed. "And if we can just get the magical community on our side, though it may not be enough to tip the vote, we'll have a strong grassroots campaign." 

So what, if Trowa either had never loved him like that or had long since recovered from that love, did Trowa think of him these days? Duo couldn't guess, especially as it depended largely on what had been going through Trowa's head at the time of the spell's casting. Duo had long ago convinced himself that, whatever Trowa had intended to happen when he'd muttered those words, _this_ \-- this long, miserable, helpless existence as a piece of plastic without most human sensation and with _no_ human opportunity -- hadn't been it. Trowa might have been annoyed -- even truly angry -- but a wide gulf stood between that emotional state and the willingness to commit an atrocity like this. Even a temporary transformation used as a sort of threat or punishment was something Duo considered beyond Trowa's willingness and moral pale. And if this whole doll thing, this ruination of Duo's life, had been in part or in whole an accident, Trowa's feelings about what he'd done must have been every bit as wretched as Duo's feelings about having it done to him. And what would those feelings have turned into after three decades? 

"If only we could count on those flyers looking any damn good," the uncle grumbled. 

Trowa might have been horrified at first, and possibly even downright frantic to rescind what he'd done to Duo, determined to fix things. But as the years passed and they never met again, how would his feelings have transformed? Would he have come to accept the futility of seeking a twelve-inch child's plaything in a huge country, come to terms with what he'd done, and moved on? Would he now think of Duo only occasionally, and with regret, yes, but only as a forlorn memory of a mistake he'd once made and couldn't take back? Or would he have held onto the guilt and horror and allowed it to make him miserable in the long-term, warping his entire future, twisting his attitudes and outlook until no happiness remained for him? In that case, he probably thought of Duo as little as possible, and felt only bitterness and despair when he did. 

"Even if they don't _look_ any good," said the father reassuringly, "if they've only got the things he's promised on them, they'll be convincing enough." 

Of course, there was always the possibility Trowa had remained _angry_ at him. Trowa had never been the type to blame someone else for his own actions, to dodge responsibility, but it _had_ been _Duo's_ bad behavior that had led to the situation in which he'd cast whatever that spell had been. Duo had betrayed their friendship by horning in on that woman -- what _was_ her name? -- and then goaded Trowa into a frame of mind so angry he'd gotten careless with his magic. It wasn't actually Duo's fault, of course -- Trowa had made his choice, even if it had been a bad one -- but Trowa might still bear a grudge against the friend whose aggravating actions had brought them to a point where that choice could ruin one or perhaps both of their lives. Trowa wouldn't know just how much Duo had suffered, and might look back with some ire in his heart. 

"Folks'll _have_ to see how important it is to elect Beard when they realize he's got a complete magical overhaul of the railroad infrastructure lined up for once he's in office. That's gonna make Beaumont the most successful freight point in the state. If they're not all the damn fools I think they are most of the time, they'll _have_ to vote right." 

And maybe... just maybe... Trowa not only had loved Duo, but still loved him to this day. He'd always been reserved about certain things, and it didn't seem impossible for him to have been incubating the same affection Duo had, maybe even with the same level of obliviousness to his own feelings. Had he recognized them decades later, just as Duo had? Was he out there somewhere now, lonely and heartbroken, unable to move on, just as Duo was? This possibility topped all others in the anguish it produced -- worse than Trowa avoiding thoughts of him, worse than Trowa's anger, _perhaps_ even worse than the idea of Trowa being dead. If he'd had tear ducts, Duo would have wept. Why did he have to go through this year after year? Why must he always be wondering and never satisfied on this point? 

"They _are_ damn fools. But we'll bring 'em 'round. You'll see." 

There were ways he could have attempted to seek answers. Sometimes, he knew, he let his own helplessness engulf him, and took less action than perhaps he should have. Those two men whose terminally dull conversation he couldn't help overhearing, for instance, were magically gifted, and might believe him if he told them his story. But what good would that do? Even if they accepted every word, would they be willing to offer him any assistance? He had no good impression of their level of kindness in the first place, and even a much nicer person might hesitate to get involved in a situation like this. Then, supposing they _were_ willing, what could they actually do? Drop everything, drive him to a place twenty hours north of here, and start a dubious search for some fellow that had lived there thirty years before? 

Even if Trowa remained in the same city -- hell, in the same _state_ \-- what were the chances of finding him? How would Duo go about looking -- just ask around? Trowa had meant the world to him, but never all that much to the world. Who was likely to remember him? No, no, it was pointless even thinking about it. Might as well give up the idea forever, and simply keep lying here on his face. 


	6. Nine Decades: Peace and Long Life (1966)

For all he complained, there _were_ times he preferred not being able to feel anything. The mere awareness that Trudy's mouth was significantly more slobbery than Bibble's (though Bibble was no slacker in that area herself) disgusted him at least mentally... if he'd had to _feel_ his entire body getting gradually coated with dog slime, it might have been too much for his sanity. He liked canines -- he really did -- and didn't much like felines, but in such instances thought he would prefer a cat's paw batting at him, the way they sometimes did, for all it tangled his hair and damaged his clothing, to a dog's teeth and tongue and overactive salivary glands. 

And now the two dachshunds had started a tug-of-war with Duo's body as the rope, and he sighed loudly. He could call for help, but Anne probably wouldn't hear his quiet voice from the kitchen over the snarling and the living room cuckoo clock striking eight. He would need to wait until the dogs got bored and put him down -- which in some instances took an anomalously long time. What he would _most_ like was for Janice, if she _must_ abandon him at her grandmother's house when she went home for the evening, at least to leave him on one of the doilied end tables or somewhere else higher up out of the dogs' reach... but what were little girls made of if not carelessness? 

And he honestly didn't mind being left at Anne's house. Though Trudy and Bibble ran amok time after time, fighting over him, carrying him around, and chewing and slobbering on him for hours on end if not checked, this place wasn't nearly the menagerie some homes he'd lived in had been. At least there were only two fat dogs, and no cats, rodents, or -- he shuddered mentally -- _horses_ to put up with. 

"Trudy! Bibble!" Even Anne's stern voice was exceptionally grandmotherly, and her pets often disregarded it. They _couldn't_ disregard her hand -- quicker and stronger than her tone, and all pruny with soapy water -- reaching in to break up their private little war and seize Duo with no concerns about how much saliva he might be wearing. "Bad girls! Leave the poor doll alone!" The dogs made small circles at her feet, sometimes rising up onto hind legs to protest the removal of their toy, but Anne had none of it. She turned smartly and headed back into the kitchen, saying to Duo, "Let's get you cleaned up, my friend." 

"It isn't every day the beautiful maiden rescues the handsome prince," Duo replied in an overdone tone of grateful appreciation. 

Anne chuckled. "It isn't every day someone calls me a beautiful maiden!" 

"Anne by any other name would still be a beautiful maiden," was Duo's gallant answer. 

Again she laughed. "I'm afraid that makes no sense." 

Duo thought through his words and admitted, "I'm afraid you're right." He clicked the tongue he didn't have. "Beautiful _and_ intelligent!" 

As she set aside the dishes she'd evidently been working on when she'd heard growling in the other room and come to investigate, she rolled her eyes... but Duo knew she enjoyed the flirtation. She'd lost her husband, he understood, some years back -- before he'd met her -- and appreciated the attentions even of a toy whose reality as a person she rather doubted. And of course Duo appreciated the opportunity to connect with another adult, even one whose belief in his reality as a person left something to be desired. 

For the first time in his plastic life, Duo had professionally tailored clothing, thanks to the recent release onto the market of a doll approximately his size whose fashions he could appropriate. Of course the striped sweater and white pants he currently wore were more or less hideous, even without the dog slobber, but it was a delightful novelty to have store-bought clothing at all. And now Anne finished up her errand of mercy by stripping him down and putting both doll and clothing into the kitchen sink where an endeavor of cleanliness had already been going on. He wished he could discern the apple scent of the dishwashing liquid she used to bathe him, but was relieved at the improvement of his circumstances in any case. 

"You do love to get me naked, don't you?" he couldn't help remarking, his voice more muffled than usual by the water running over him. 

"And _you_ do love to make terribly inappropriate comments at an old woman," Anne replied, again in that would-be-stern tone that fooled nobody. 

The naked time wasn't destined to end particularly soon, since, though Duo's plastic form (if not his hair) could be dried off pretty easily, his outfit needed longer; so, nude and relatively happy, he sat on the counter beside the little shirt and trousers laid out on the towel beside him and watched Anne return to the dishes that had been interrupted by Duo and the dogs. 

Anne was a bit of an enigma in her mundane domesticity. Her years of life numbered slightly fewer than Duo's -- by eighteen or so -- but she seemed, somehow, to have a far greater amount of placidity in her later decades than Duo did. And perhaps that was merely because she'd actually been able to _live_ for all that time, to have a happy marriage and children and all the feelings and experiences of a normal person rather than being trapped in sensationless and unchanging plastic. But perhaps it was something else as well. 

For Duo, sometimes the deadly years crawled tortuously along so he thought he must go crazy before he met many more of them; while at other times, tomorrow was yesterday so quickly it left him reeling and breathless -- purely in a psychological sense, of course. He didn't know which he preferred. Swift chronological progress meant nothing to someone that didn't change and couldn't change anything, but there were definitely some unpleasant happenings he would prefer to get through quickly rather than slowly. And outside, independent of how rapidly Duo's life was or wasn't moving, the world underwent its own metamorphosis such as he had never seen before -- and, indeed, only imperfectly saw now through the media of television and gossip. 

Instead of struggling valiantly to support the war effort with every last beat of their patriotic hearts as he'd watched them do thirty years before, people avidly protested that there was a war on at all. Popular music, apparently, was becoming increasingly sexualized and raucous, and was enjoyed in shameless defiance of a disapproving older generation. The oppressed and ignored were rising up and demanding rights and recognition that had long been denied them, willing to flout authority in pursuit of this end. And in many cases, it seemed, the children were leading these undertakings as adolescents and young adults gained a greater voice as discrete peoples. 

Even Christine, Anne's daughter, though she'd been adolescent herself in the 40's and might have been expected to exhibit the habits of that era, never wore dresses these days and single-handedly supported little Janice, who subsequently stayed at her grandmother's house in the afternoons and evenings until her mother came to pick her up after work. Sometimes Janice even stayed until morning, and was then driven to school by or else enjoyed a leisurely Saturday with Anne, in order to give Christine freedom to have overnight guests in that man trap of an apartment of hers. 

Duo wasn't certain how he felt about all these new ideas. Sure, he'd engaged in extramarital sex himself back when he'd been capable of it, but only ever with one person at a time -- and he certainly hadn't needed to temporarily relocate a naive eight-year-old in order to do it! He also wasn't sure how Anne could be so tranquil, could give hardly the wink of an eye to a way of life so very different from what she'd grown up with -- nor why _he_ seemed to be experiencing such dissonance in observing it. Were those eighteen years between them really enough to make him so much less accepting than she was? Or else why couldn't he feel the same peace she did? 

He decided, as he watched his latest child's grandmother placidly finishing up the dishes and then moving on to a barely-necessary more generalized kitchen cleanup, that what he truly wanted was a piece of the action. He wanted to be out there in the midst of the change instead of just faintly hearing about it from afar. He _didn't_ know how he felt about these new ideas of sexual freedom, but he would like to try them. He had lived through three wars and seen what they did to individuals and society, and would like to protest this latest. He was probably a gay man, and would like to say it proudly to anyone and everyone once he got that sorted. And others fighting for liberation -- women and colored folk and so on -- surely deserved a chance too! He would march in anyone's parade that sought better conditions for honest, worthy people. He might even like to hear some of that 'rock and roll' music that had been gaining so much traction over the last ten or fifteen years. 

But he couldn't have sex. He couldn't protest; he couldn't fight; he couldn't march. And he had no choice about what he did or didn't listen to. In the end, his discontentment -- and his discontentment with Anne's contentment -- found its basis not in disapproval, nor some supposed moral high ground, nor trepidation about where this new era would lead society... in fact it boiled down to the exact same thing it always did: he hated being a doll. Yes, in some ways he and Anne were similar -- both aging products of a previous era watching the world evolve in front of them but taking very little part in it -- but in one fundamental way they were very, very different. 

_She could_, if she wished, get involved, but was satisfied not to. He could _not_, even if he wished, get involved, and was _beyond_ dissatisfied. She was comfortable, after having lived a fulfilling life, to retire to her own happy private world of spoiling her pets and her granddaughter and obsessively scrubbing everything. He would prefer, after having his life put on hold for so long, to dive right off the side of paradise into the uncertain waters of societal progress and see where they took him. 

But instead he was played with by children, stored away like the object he was, dropped, forgotten, and fought over by dogs. And what, for him, could possibly be the alternative? Factor in his near-complete immobility, his diminutive frame, and the quietness of his voice, and the chances of his ever being involved in the world, having what could be called an adult life, seemed depressingly minuscule. 

Of course there was the dim possibility of his condition being reversed, of whatever spell Trowa had laid on him being broken... but by the time such a distant and unlikely event took place, would that which survived his long years as a doll be worth anything? All his yesterdays were slowly adding up to a tomorrow he didn't necessarily want to return to. What would he be when no longer a doll? Could he make a new life in this new civilization he was watching grow up around him? 

"Finished!" Anne gave the kitchen a long, critical look. Despite her owning two dogs, dirt remained above all things the enemy within this house, and she spent more time cleaning than anyone Duo had ever met. Now, however, the spotless kitchen (which to the doll appeared very little different than when he'd been in here earlier with Janice) evidently met her satisfaction, and she was able to hang up her apron for the nonce. Then she returned to where Duo sat on the counter and smiled down at him. "Fancy some television?" 

"Yes, please!" The thought actually significantly cheered him, as television, ever since its invention, had proven an excellent distraction and a window into a wider world he wasn't otherwise allowed to see much of -- the best stand-in for actual involvement he was likely to get. He winked at Anne as he added, "If you don't mind me sitting beside you in my elegant birthday suit, that is." 

"You're a rogue," she replied, picking him up. "But, yes, I think we'll leave your clothes drying a little longer." And she turned each piece over so as to air their opposite sides. 

Since Friday's child-care would probably run overnight -- Duo had heard Christine making arrangements with a couple of her lovers, and therefore assumed Janice would begin the weekend here at Anne's -- he needed to take advantage of this Thursday evening to make all the borderline-risqué comments he could. "I think you just want an excuse to keep my manly figure uncovered as long as possible." 

"Shameless!" Anne laughed. "You may not say anything more like that during the program. It's a new science fiction series my friend recommended to me, and I want to pay attention." 

"Fine, fine," Duo allowed. "I'll just pine in silence." 

Still chuckling, complacent as usual, Anne carried him into the darkness of the next room and lit it up by switching on the television set. And Duo supposed that, whatever changes the future held -- in the world and in his own long life -- and whatever frustrating inability he had to endure before he reached the unknown, he could probably face it all well enough with a peaceful example like this in mind. 


	7. Nine Decades: Annunciation (1976)

In good news, the jar, though smeared with little fingerprints and dusted with dirt, remained clear glass and had had its label removed, and was therefore more or less transparent. In bad news, it had rolled such that Duo, inside it down to his thighs, faced the ground and still couldn't see anything around him. He could probably heft himself over so as at least to be able to look at the sky for some minimal entertainment while alone, but only if he could be sure he _was_ alone -- and of course, lying on his face like this, he couldn't be. 

How much he actually needed that surety, however, he didn't know; he'd been wondering lately whether it wasn't about time to start talking to Rosa. If that time had come, manipulating himself onto his back with a stiff arm and leg wouldn't be any worse a preface to their first conversation than anything else. But revealing that he could (to a certain extent) move under his own power would force the first conversation whether or not the time had come if Rosa happened to be around. Besides, Maria might be nearby as well -- this was the exact problem with lying on his face -- and Duo knew very well he didn't want to speak to the superstitious Maria today or possibly any day. 

Rosa, though, was a smart kid. Much smarter than her eight years might suggest, and too smart, if what Duo overheard on a regular basis inside the house was any indication, for her teachers to have any idea what to do with. But what baffled the public school system might win Duo a friend and ally. It would be so nice to have someone to talk to, someone to understand his situation again. 

What he referred to in his head as 'first contact' had a certain ritual about it -- a pattern of events that played out with a significant amount of similarity every time and thus that he'd come to regard almost as something he chose to have happen rather than something that merely naturally did. He would start by trying not to be a smart aleck, by saying something reasonable and not too dramatic to announce himself and his abilities. And then the response tended to fall into one of a few predictable categories. 

There were the scared kids, of whom the subcategories were the ones Duo had to work on over multiple sessions before their fear would fade, and the ones that gave in to the cool factor much quicker. There were the canny kids that thought at first some friend or family member must be playing a trick on them; and their subcategories were the ones that maintained a dubious demeanor for a while in order to deny plausibly that they'd ever believed in him just in case they turned out to be right, and the ones that secretly _wanted_ to believe and therefore dropped the pretense of skepticism fairly soon. And there were the kids that simply accepted from the beginning with little to no persuasion, whose subcategories were calmness, enthusiasm, and weirder enthusiasm. Perhaps this made for a decently large number of reaction possibilities, but Duo had seen them all multiple times, and he could usually guess, after getting to know a kid for a while, how that kid would behave when the revelation came. 

Rosa, he thought, would be either the calmly accepting or the enthusiastic type. She would ask intelligent questions to comprehend the situation, and, once she understood, would assimilate the information into her life and get on with things. Then she and Duo could have conversations on a regular basis that would make existence a little less tedious, and future games could be enriched by two-sided dialogue. 

That was all assuming Maria didn't find out. Duo believed he could predict _her_ reaction too, and it wouldn't be nearly so measured and rational as Rosa's: she would gasp and go as pale as her complexion allowed and cross herself and whisper something about the devil and pull Rosa away and probably call a priest to come confiscate the possessed toy. She might even insist the family pack up and move. He couldn't be sure just how far she would take it, but he knew what, in general, she would do. Nope, definitely not planning to talk to Maria. 

So he lay on his face continuing to consider whether it was time or not and listening for sounds of Rosa's return from inside the house. Rosa and her mother often ate lunch outside, but today Duo had gotten the feeling -- from their conversation as they went in, of course, not from any ability to detect the fact on his own -- that it was a little cool out. Of course, in Arizona, 'a little cool out' probably still meant 'warmer than anything but summer where Duo had lived back when he'd had the ability to discern temperatures.' Be that as it might, Rosa and Maria were inside eating lunch, and Duo abandoned outside alone (he thought) in his spaceship. 

Rosa had been learning about astronomy lately, and had developed a sudden burning passion for exploration of the cosmos. Thus Duo had transitioned abruptly from the previous, somewhat nebulous occupation of 'hero' that had kept him busy for the last few months to that of astronaut. The empty pickle jar was the latest in a series of experimental spaceships, and not, he thought, the most successful: though Maria had promised Rosa she could use construction paper to decorate it up like a real shuttle, it remained too short for Duo's entire body and therefore faulty for the purpose. 

Motion caught Duo's eye, and he honestly didn't want to know what it was. The only things he could possibly see from his current position were likely to fall under at least one of the headings 'creepy' or 'crawly,' and, despite being unable to _feel_ the pitter-patter of tiny feet across his plastic body, he nevertheless deplored the awareness of its presence. Curiosity, however, got the better of distaste and compelled him to look down as best he could. His head didn't swivel far in that direction, but it was far enough to disclose the blackish-brown figure of a small scorpion squeezing its way between Duo and the concave glass on which he lay. 

With a severe mental shudder, Duo wondered why on earth the little creature wanted to be there, of all places. Had the sun through the bottle glass created a warm haven against the cool day? In any case, lying here spooning a scorpion ranked quite low on his list of favorite activities. He weighed the value of waving all his limbs (in an attempt to get the thing to flee) against the possibility that Rosa or her mother could come out of the house at any time without making enough noise to herald their approach. 

This had been a fortunate consideration, for, before he'd come to any actual decision, he picked up footsteps and voices -- Rosa's _and_ Maria's -- closer than he would have thought they could get without his noticing them. But he _was_ on a space mission, and, as Rosa had carefully informed her parents just the other day, sound didn't carry through space. Revealing himself at the moment was out of the question. 

Or was it? The entire situation shifted as Duo realized what his two caretakers had come to do. Maria remarked, evidently upon catching sight of Duo's bottle, "I think it will work great. We'll tape the pot onto it, and it'll be a perfect space shuttle." And then smaller running steps, excited, hurried toward where Duo lay. 

The doll had barely a second to plan his actions. He hadn't considered the scorpion in the jar anything beyond an annoyance and discomfort he would have to deal with for a little while. But now it threatened to be far more than that to more than only him. 

He'd been sure all along that Maria's fear of the devil (which encompassed fear of anything she deemed supernatural, though Duo didn't think she'd ever encountered anything truly magical besides himself) would make her the type of parent that would throw him away or take him to Goodwill the moment she became aware he could talk. No matter how rationally her daughter might explain that the doll was a friend and not evil, her daughter was, after all, only eight years old. Duo could in no way talk to Maria and hope to retain his place in this home. And he liked this home. 

But a scorpion sting could kill a kid that small. 

Without hesitation, at what, for lack of a better term, he must call the top of his lungs, Duo shouted, "Don't touch the bottle! There's a scorpion inside!" 

All noise ceased, and Duo could not make out what happened next. No hand seemed to be reaching in for him; had he succeeded in delivering the message? He couldn't take any chances. So again he cried, as loudly as possible, "Don't touch the bottle! Scorpion!" 

He thought he heard Maria gasp a broken prayer, and shuffling footsteps that might have been scrambling backward. Underneath him, Duo believed the scorpion stirred a bit, though certainty eluded him when he couldn't feel the creature and wasn't looking that direction. Then Maria's voice sounded more surely: "No, you stay back there. Don't go close to it. Let me..." And something clinked loudly against the side of the jar, which rocked a bit into a ponderous roll. 

The sluggish movement couldn't flip Duo over, only slid him along the bottom, but it _was_ enough to vex the scorpion and send it outside; Duo knew this mostly by the little shrieks both Maria and Rosa gave. Then there were more quick footsteps and a crunching _thud_ that probably heralded the end of the arachnid that had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Duo couldn't help thinking, _Good riddance_. 

Continual crunching (somewhat disturbing to listen to no matter what Duo thought about scorpions) signified, he guessed, a large stone being shifted back and forth on top of the creature. Just as Duo had felt a minute before, Maria obviously didn't want to take any chances. Then silence fell once again, nearly -- this time marred by Maria's heavy but unsteady breaths as if she were on the verge of sobbing. But she managed with relative evenness to ask, "Is it safe now?" 

"Yeah..." Duo replied resignedly. If he'd already destroyed his future here by talking in front of Maria, he might as well finish the job. "There was only the one." 

Maria snatched up the jar and drew Duo out of it, her eyes moving manically back and forth between the two objects. Behind her stood Rosa, looking not so much afraid as curious. It really was time. 

Except then Maria closed her eyes and whispered, "Dear Lord, thank you for saving my girl. Thank you for your voice of warning. Thank you." Tears began to run down her face, at first in little rivulets but soon in torrents, as she repeated the grateful prayer a few times more. The third time, she referred to the preceding events as a miracle. 

So now Duo definitely didn't know what to say. 

Maria calmed somewhat at last, stopped praying, and crossed herself (more or less) with the hand holding the jar. It probably would have looked absurd even to someone that _was_ religiously inclined. "Rosa," she said, turning to face her daughter, "I want you to remember that you've heard the voice of God. He saved you from the scorpion, so I know He must have something great planned for you." 

There were about a hundred things Duo could have said at this point. _Obviously_ Rosa was headed for something great, but because she was a genius, not because of the will of God. Unless, of course, she got accidentally turned into a doll at some point, in which case she was headed for something completely awful. That was the thing about God: if he existed, he sure as hell didn't care whether or not innocent people suffered for fifty-three years. And when an innocent, suffering person that had just risked his comfort and future and possibly even safety for the sake of someone whose mother then attributed the gesture to that same unfeeling and probably nonexistent God, it represented yet another blow against everything fair and rational in the universe. But Duo, dumbstruck, couldn't utter a word of this. 

"That was _God's_ voice?" Rosa wondered, sounding impressed. "I thought God would talk Latin like at church." 

Maria's religion had made Duo wary of introducing himself to her, because he'd believed she would assume he was some devil-possessed object -- not practically the opposite! He'd never been mistaken for a divine channel before, and not only did it annoy him, it discomforted and dismayed him. 

"God can speak every language," Maria told her child. "And see how He can say exactly what you need to hear at just the right time?" 

Whether Maria believed the Voice Of God had come from Duo or merely out of the jar, the doll had no real way to be sure, unless he happened to be in the room later when Maria recounted these events to her husband -- and possibly not even then... but it made very little difference. Whichever she believed at the moment, the very instant Duo spoke aloud again in her hearing, she would be confirmed in the doll side of the theory. She would think God still talked through him, and would be disturbingly grateful to hear whatever he had to say. 

Rosa was peering at the dead scorpion now, intrigued. "Can I take it to school?" 

But Duo wouldn't _have_ anything to say. The thought of impersonating a messenger from God would have been enough, even more than the scorpion, to make his skin crawl if he'd had skin. It didn't matter much that _he_ didn't believe in God and, in fact, felt rather bitter anyone else still could. It would fill him with an entirely different bitterness to stage such a deception. And what would he say, anyway? _"Be nice to all talking dolls from now on; thus saith the Lord!"_

"No, love," Maria replied. She'd barely looked away from the doll in her hand to see what Rosa was referring to. "We'll get daddy to throw it away when he gets home. Don't get too close to it." 

Of course there might be a backtracking option: to explain to Rosa privately that her mother had been mistaken, that he was merely an enchanted human rather than a divine vessel (he would avoid using the term 'curse' that he'd been revolving in his head for a number of years now)... but aside from doubting he could count on Rosa not to share whatever he said with Maria even if he requested silence, he didn't think he could face doling out that kind of disillusionment. 

"Can we go fix the spaceship now?" Rosa asked. 

Maria hesitated. She was still staring in awe at Duo, and the degree to which she ignored the jar in her other hand seemed to indicate her belief that the holiness did not lie there. Duo guessed that, in spite of this, she worried about the potential sacrilege of fashioning a play spaceship out of it after the events of the day. Perhaps she hoped the godly mouthpiece would put in an opinion on the matter. Too bad the godly mouth was defiantly, disgustedly, permanently shut. 

"Let's... let's go inside," she said at last. "We'll see." 

And so Duo was carried reverently into the house and an uncertain future with the depressing knowledge that he'd saved a brilliant little kid from a lot of trouble and possibly death by sacrificing any chance he had to make a friend of her... that by choosing to talk to Rosa and Maria once, he'd made it impossible ever to talk to them again. That he'd doomed himself to an even worse time in this home he hadn't wanted to lose by valuing human life... something he didn't even have.


	8. Nine Decades: The Irony of Not Actually Being a Liar (1984)

It had begun with Todd asking Duo several times if he was _sure_ he couldn't be damaged, to the point where Duo had felt it necessary to relate some of the experiences he'd had during the long years that would otherwise have meant some degree of destruction to a helpless plastic doll -- including being run over on multiple occasions by motor vehicles, left on the floor of a Jacuzzi for half a week, and an encounter with an InSinkErator that the kid responsible had always (Duo believed falsely) claimed was an accident. Then Todd had gotten that conniving look and left the room, and Duo hadn't had any idea what was in store until several days later. 

Now Todd, three friends, and his younger sister Stacey, in whose six-year-old hands Duo currently rotated, had gathered in the Kelly family garage. Devoid of car while Lt. Kelly was at work, it left them plenty of free space, but Duo _still_ had no idea what was in store. For one thing, the only light in the room came from the small windows across the top of the closed garage door, so he had an imperfect view of the setup to begin with; for another, Stacey rarely held him still so he could actually _look_ at things -- she constantly shifted him around into different positions, so at any given moment he might equally well be staring at the ruffles on the bottom of her shirt or the kitchen door behind her as what everyone had gathered for. 

"Why don't you turn on the light," Ned complained. 

"You'll see!" Observing his friends weren't buying this cryptic reply, Todd added, "It'll look cooler in the dark when I get the fire lit." 

"You're lighting a fire?" No surprise Sumit hadn't been able to figure out what Todd was fumbling with. 

"You're going to get in _so much trouble_," said Rhonda gleefully. 

Todd declared, "No, I'm not. Look, it's in a can -- a metal can's not going to catch on fire -- and I put it way out here in the middle where there's nothing around it. It's totally safe." 

They all crowded in, and Stacey's hands remained stationary enough for several seconds that Duo could see the large coffee can, presumably filled with combustibles of some type, on top of a cinder block in the center of the otherwise empty expanse of concrete garage floor. 

"Don't stand so close, you guys!" Todd complained. "You're making shadows and I can't see the matches." He still fumbled, and had yet to produce even a single spark. 

"There's going to be smoke, though," Sumit protested, "even if nothing else catches on fire!" 

Frustrated tone testament to his continual lack of luck with the matches, Todd said, "Oh, don't be such a baby. There's no smoke detector out _here_." 

"You're going to get in _so much trouble_," Rhonda repeated. 

Ned wondered, "How'd you hang this thing up?" He referred to, and poked at, the unidentifiable object -- some type of roughly rectangular framework -- that dangled mysteriously several inches above the coffee can and swung in response to his prodding finger. 

"I climbed up on the rafters and tied it up there." Todd sounded extremely proud of himself. 

Stacey contributed to the conversation for the first time with, "Mom says you're not supposed to climb up there." 

"I know, but don't tell her, OK?" 

Stacey remained silent. Her nervousness about the proceedings showed in her tight and now relatively unmoving grip on Duo. The doll didn't blame her; he still hadn't figured out what was going on, but doubted the ingenious Todd, in dragging his friends into a dark garage and breaking so many rules, could possibly have anything particularly edifying planned. 

"Can't the strings catch on fire?" Sumit was a bit of a worrier, which in this situation was probably for the best. 

"They're fishing line," said Todd dismissively. "Even if the fire got that high, they'd just melt, not burn and catch anything else on fire." 

Scornfully Rhonda said, "You don't know how to use those matches. Let me do it." 

"I can use them just fine!" Todd jerked away from her. "I just can't see anything!" 

"Let's turn the light on for a minute," Ned suggested. "Just 'til you get the matches lit." And when Todd reluctantly agreed, he fumbled his own way to the nearby dangling string, with its attached ping-pong ball that tapped against the windshield when the car had pulled in far enough to avoid having the garage door close on its rear bumper, and clicked the space around them into visibility. 

"All right," Todd said, and set to work again. It soon became clear, though, that Rhonda's suggestion had been pretty near the truth -- either he didn't know how to use matches or just hadn't had enough experience with them to do so smoothly or practically. He kept bending them out of shape without successfully striking them across the back of the book. 

Duo rather hoped Todd would continue to fail until he'd mangled all the matches beyond any usefulness. The doll believed this had something to do with him and his indestructibility; he'd recalled, by now, their conversation of last week, and linked it with this scene with a fair degree of certainty. That framework hanging from the rafters, which in the light he now identified as having been formed out of wire coat-hangers, looked very much like some sort of torture rack as it dangled above the proposed fire-pit. 

Todd's creativity and handiness usually didn't take so malicious a bent, but Duo couldn't think of anything else the device could be intended for. And though Todd's friends would certainly be impressed by a doll that resisted melting or blackening while dangling over a fire -- undoubtedly one of the reasons he'd put this little demonstration together -- Stacey was just as certain to be agitated and frightened by the scene. And Duo _was_ Stacey's doll, not Todd's, even if his revelation of intelligence had brought him closer to the ten-year-old than to the younger sibling that technically owned him. 

A triumphant noise issued from Todd's throat as the latest match burst into flame and, not dropped in startlement like the previous, stayed there. Then his movements were perhaps a little jerky with haste as he hurried to light whatever filled the coffee can before the match could go out. Quickly he withdrew his hand, and there followed abruptly an up-springing of fire that seemed to give him a great deal of satisfaction. 

"OK, Stace," he said, turning to his sister and holding out his hand, "gimme Duo." 

Duo doubted Stacey had seen this coming, but that didn't make her emphatic negative response less immediate. She took a step back, clutching at her doll now with both hands and vigorously shaking her head. 

"Come on," Todd wheedled. "You said you wanted to see the movie... I'm going to show you the best part!" 

"He'll get hurt!" Stacey looked back and forth from her brother to the fire in the coffee can with wide eyes. 

"No, he won't, I promise." 

Here Sumit put in with some concern, "But his clothes and hair--" 

"He won't get burned!" Todd interrupted impatiently. "Besides, your parents won't let you see it either." 

Reluctantly Sumit had to admit the truth in this. 

Rhonda had caught the interest of the scene -- either that or she wanted the pleasure of tattling on Todd once he'd destroyed his sister's toy -- and now brought her own influence to bear. "Come on, Stacey, it'll be fun!" 

"I know what part he wants to do," was Ned's contribution, "and it really is the best part. Maybe this is the only way you'll ever get to see it!" 

Todd held out his hand again. "Come on, Stacey!" 

The combination of legitimate curiosity with peer pressure (which she probably knew would become browbeating after not too long) forced the six-year-old to give in, and, though her motion in handing Duo over remained reluctant, she finally complied with the wishes of the group. Duo, as he so often did, restrained a sigh when he found himself looking up at Todd's eager face; this couldn't end well. In better news, the process of convincing Stacey and the subsequent preparation was taking so long that the fire might well have completely died out by the time the main event got started. 

Todd began stripping off Duo's clothing -- which, having originally been designed for 1970's Ken, Duo did not regret, but didn't envisage being replaced by anything nicer anytime soon -- while the other kids crowded around to see what he was doing. Of course as soon as the pants were removed, Rhonda started giggling uncontrollably, which made the boys laugh as well, but Todd stuck to his purpose: he'd withdrawn from his pocket what appeared to be the excised toe-end of a sock punctured twice so as to accommodate the legs of an unsuspecting doll. This makeshift undergarment, upon application, proved too big, but Todd had anticipated this, and fastened it in place with a rubber band cinching it close around Duo's waist. 

"He looks like he's wearing a diaper," said Rhonda, still giggling despite the hilarious penis having been covered up. Ned, also with a bit of residual laughter, agreed with her. 

"You guys have anything to make a real loincloth for a doll out of?" Todd retorted. "I couldn't leave him in _that stuff_, could I?" And he pointed disdainfully at the imitation-corduroy pants and striped red shirt he'd thrown to the floor, which, at his gesture, Stacey now snatched protectively up. Then, turning toward the coffee can and hanging wires, he said, "Now I just have to get him into the thing." 

This turned out easier said than done, as Todd planned to tie Duo's arms and legs down with more fishing line, which proved absolutely impossible (without an additional hand or four) while holding the framework away from the fire and Duo motionless at the same time. Eventually he had to accept assistance from Ned and Rhonda, and the task went on far longer (and with a lot more arguing) than probably any of them had anticipated. Sumit stood on tiptoe trying to watch in evident agitation, Stacey was obviously bored despite her equal concern, and Duo _might_ have been increasingly sanguine about the diminution of the fire if he hadn't been directly facing it the entire time. Whatever Todd had put into that coffee can, it hadn't yet stopped its steady burn even after all this nonsense. It looked like this torture ceremony really must happen, then. Duo could only hope Stacey wouldn't be too traumatized; perhaps the boredom and impatience would act as a sort of buffer. 

"OK, OK," said Todd at last as Duo fell into place above the crackling flames and swung slightly before the boy steadied him. "Now you guys stand over here--" he gestured-- "and I'll do the ceremony." 

"There should only be three of us," protested Ned. 

"I don't want to be the girl," Rhonda complained at the same time. "I don't like her!" 

Also simultaneously Stacey, all fear for Duo's safety abruptly renewed, squeaked, "What are you going to do to him?" 

Todd addressed multiple concerns at once. "Stacey, you stand next to me -- you're one of the coltists, and I'm the high priest -- and the rest of you guys stand over there. It doesn't matter who's who, because you just have to watch and pretend like you're hiding." 

"But the girl _didn't_ watch." Rhonda stood her ground. "She was too scared, remember? So we have to decide who's the girl, because that person can't watch, and I don't want it to be me." 

Ned rolled his eyes. "But you _have_ to be her. One of _us_ can't be her!" 

At the same moment Sumit asked, "What's happening? What are we doing?" 

"We can just pretend the girl _did_ watch," Todd said in a loud and dictatorial tone, "and then it doesn't matter who's the girl because you can _all_ watch. Sumit..." Though clearly impatient to get on with his big scene, he also took pity on those in the dark as to plotline, for he next gave a summary (which would have been brief if not for the helpful interjections of Rhonda and Ned) of the events that had brought the characters represented here to the scenario about to take place. 

To this Duo, who hadn't been to the movie and probably never would, paid little attention (though admittedly he was starting to understand why the Kelly parents weren't allowing their younger child to see it). He watched Stacey's pinched-up, worried little face with growing concern -- not that he could do anything to help -- and hoped she wouldn't cry herself to sleep tonight and then wake screaming from bad dreams her parents would be at a loss to comprehend. 

Finally -- and, as far as Duo could tell, the fire had actually only gotten _higher_ in its metal container -- it was time. Stacey could not be convinced to chant or drum on anything or even stamp her feet, so Todd gave up on her participation entirely and turned toward Duo in his framework with a portentous expression; actually he looked somewhat constipated. As Todd began mumbling nonsense words (under his breath so as to hide the fact that they were random and unscripted) and stroking the doll's face on both sides with one finger, Duo noticed they'd neglected to turn the light back off. 

Todd's incoherence rose in pitch and comprehensibility as he shouted, so abruptly it made most of the others jump, "Kali maa!" He lifted one hand toward the ceiling and repeated the phrase several times, his volume increasing with each instance. 

The effect was entirely spoiled, however, when Ned cried out accusingly, in response to some movement of Todd's other hand, "He didn't use a _knife_!" 

Todd turned an annoyed face toward Ned. "I can't _really_ stick my hand inside him, can I?" 

"You can't cut Duo!" Stacey shrieked, and now Duo could see the Swiss army knife Todd had pulled from his pocket. 

"It won't really hurt him," Todd told her in a low, firm tone, seemingly far more concerned with being allowed to continue his act as high priest than actually comforting Stacey. 

Sumit, confused and unhelpful, put in at this point, "I don't think Kali would really--" 

"Kali maa!" Todd roared by way of override, jerking the knife's biggest blade out and raising the weapon threateningly. 

"He didn't say it that loud," Ned muttered. 

Abruptly Todd stabbed at Duo's chest, repeating the dramatic phrase yet again at top volume. And once more the effect was ruined, since the gesture only set the framework swinging wildly, the contact between sharp metal and imperturbable plastic far too brief to amaze Todd's friends and reassure his sister as to Duo's indestructibility. With a frustrated sound Todd caught and stilled the wire with his left hand, holding it solidly in place as he took aim with his right, again made his meaningless declaration that seemed to have Sumit so perplexed, and gave Duo's chest another, more solid jab. 

This time the effect was not so much spoiled as augmented, since the knife glanced off plastic pectorals, slid to the side, and, as far as Duo could tell without turning his head, drove right into the hand holding the framework still. Todd's latest "Kali maa!" broke off in a sort of surprised croak, and he dropped the knife with a clatter and drew back a suddenly bleeding hand to stare at in bewilderment and shock. The garage was overtaken, but for the crackling of the fire, by complete silence. 

Then Stacey started to scream. 

Pandemonium, complete with stomping feet, shrieking from some voices and ever-louder suggestions and comments from others, rapidly ensued. With everyone crowding so tightly, Duo was surprised he wasn't torn down or the coffee can knocked over. He supposed the heat of the fire kept them at a safe distance. 

Though weak-voiced and in some evident shock, Todd regained his presence of mind quicker than Duo would have expected. He held his wounded hand high, trying to prevent the others from touching it -- which didn't help at all to stop blood getting everywhere -- and urged them to quiet down. He'd lost his audience, however, and found himself quickly overridden by a general insistence that they needed to go inside, wash the cut, put alcohol on the cut, bandage the cut, stitch the cut, cotch-rize the cut, and probably get Mrs. Kelly involved. While this latter was obviously the last thing Todd wanted under the circumstances, he no longer had any say in the matter. 

Stacey had stopped actually screaming, but still made a string of distressed noises and gripped her brother by the arm not flailing in the air, and nobody could get her to shut up or let go. Rhonda looked inordinately gleeful about this bloody fate of someone for whom she supposedly had feelings of friendship, while it appeared all of Sumit's worst nightmares were coming true. Ned was the loudest in insisting on seeking out medical attention (of the home-brew variety) for Todd, and the latter struggled just to make his voice heard. None of them seemed to remember, as they stampeded their agitation and din across the garage, the fire they left burning behind them. There was no reason they _should_ remember, under the circumstances, the doll hanging above it. And presently, to the sound of the kitchen door slamming so hard it must seize Mrs. Kelly's attention wherever she might be in the house, Duo found himself alone. 

He'd known this would happen. Well, he hadn't known exactly _this_ would happen -- that Todd would stab himself in the hand and the kids would all run off in a panic, leaving Duo hanging above an unexpectedly tenacious fire that now rose high enough now to lick at his legs -- but he'd known this would end badly. And there had been absolutely nothing he could do about it. 

Oh, sure, he could have talked to them, could have tried to convince Todd not to go through with it. But even aside from his desire not to expose himself at once to three extra people from divergent situations, would it have done any good? He had no authority and barely any influence; even the weight of his long experience might not have convinced these kids that their play was likely to be harmful in more than one way. In all probability they simply wouldn't have believed a word he had to say; some of them might not even have believed a real person said it. 

Duo let out a protracted sigh. He didn't bother trying to stifle it this time. Even had someone been around, he wouldn't have worried about the sound giving him away -- the fire crackled too loudly. 

And he couldn't feel it. No matter how his situation changed, no matter how many years passed, this remained the same: even flames hot and high enough to have set his clumsy loincloth ablaze made no impression whatsoever on his nerves. Well, better to say he didn't _have_ nerves, just some kind of magical awareness that informed him coldly -- ever so coldly, in situations like this -- of something touching him. And even that was limited, apparently, to when he legitimately needed to know; at the moment he barely recognized the flames licking at him, more clearly the disintegration of his single garment, and only either of these because he concentrated on them. 

Well, he wouldn't be able to say 'I told you so' to Todd, since he hadn't actually told him anything except the unfortunate information that had facilitated all of this -- but he _did_ hope Todd had learned his lesson about trying to impress his friends with fire and knives, and that his hand wasn't so badly damaged he must spend the rest of his life regretting the tuition. 

And what lesson had _Duo_ taken from all of this? That sock toes burned slowly? That movies were becoming increasingly violent? Or perhaps that even the kindest-hearted of children were capable at times of a ridiculous level of insensitivity, even cruelty, against which Duo in his current state was utterly powerless? 

But perhaps having a talk with Todd after the fact would work better than the hypothetical during. If Duo could only draw from this experience the moral that rules were in place for a reason (and if Todd's wound proved mendable), they could survive and grow, and hopefully remain on good terms. Duo's latest sigh turned unexpectedly into a laugh. For as little as the _precise_ circumstances in which he now found himself were characteristic, he really felt like a dad sometimes.


	9. Nine Decades: It Hasn't All Been Kids (1997)

Duo didn't think he liked the expression on the face of the man that had done a double-take, retraced his steps to the dingy shelf full of worn old toys, and picked Duo out of the clutter to lift him up and look more closely at him. He'd come to associate that expression, on an adult, with being boxed up and wrapped, generally still naked but occasionally more creatively clothed, and given to other adults as the funniest birthday or bachelor(ette) party present they'd ever received. Usually when he saw that look on someone's face in the Arc, he was back on that same Arc shelf within a few weeks after an experience he found _far_ less hilarious than did the other people involved. 

"Two fifty?" wondered the man under his breath, turning Duo over and finding the price tag Duo was absolutely positive would have itched like crazy if he'd been able to itch. "That's not bad." 

Yeah, when they commented on his relative dollar value after staring at his penis, the stars had not aligned well. With an internal sigh, Duo began the process of bracing himself, though he'd started to consider it not worth much anymore. 

Against the conversation at the checkstand he couldn't exactly stop his ears -- they weren't even physical ears; even the world's tiniest cotton balls wouldn't have done him any good -- but he didn't exactly pay close attention either. It had been surreal and somewhat fascinating, once upon a time, to be the object of a sales transaction -- to hear the polite exchange between cashier and customer that involved a dollar amount pertaining to the ownership of Duo himself, sometimes with commentary on his attributes but more often ignoring him completely as if, though at least part of the purchase, he remained unworthy of mention -- but by now the process had become just as discouragingly real as any other mundane aspect of his dreary life. A mixture of bitterness and indifference fluctuated within him as the scene progressed; one moment he actively didn't want to know what they were saying or what percentage sales tax had risen to these days, and the next he simply didn't care. 

He wouldn't bother talking to this one. No point, when he'd obviously been acquired merely as a present -- undoubtedly not a very serious present at that -- and wouldn't be spending any real time with the guy. But as Duo lay in the Arc bag in what he believed to be the man's car heading he could only guess where, he was pretty sorely tempted. It had been months since he'd spoken to literally anyone, and 'bored and lonely' didn't _begin_ to cover how he'd been feeling lately. Still, reminding himself he would surely change hands very soon, after which he would probably be passed around amidst much laughter and then returned all too quickly to the Arc, whence he could hope to be rescued by someone more age-appropriate for appreciating him as a potential conversational companion, he restrained himself. 

His guess as to where they were going had been 'home,' and he'd evidently been correct. Of course Duo could only assume the guy lived here, but he'd reached the point where a momentary glance was often all it took to recognize the homes of various types of people, and if he assessed this man correctly -- single, straight, mid-to-late-20's, decent but not huge income -- then, yeah, this was definitely his apartment. The remains of his breakfast on the table where Duo now sat were eloquent about his way of life. 

And now the guy examined him more closely than before, seated at the table staring hard at Duo with a hand worrying away thoughtfully at his chin and upper lip. Duo might have taken the opportunity to absorb details of his own about his new, short-term owner -- the dark curly hair, the lingering acne, the pleasant features -- but he didn't bother looking particularly hard. This wasn't a kid he would be playing with or even a friend he would be talking to; and the manner in which the man seemed to be considering something peripheral to Duo rather than any details of Duo himself made the doll feel free to do the same. 

He supposed it would be equally evident in any situation where someone didn't know you were observing them, but being a supposedly unresponsive doll really served to indicate how much adults talked to themselves or narrated their lives to nobody in particular. In fact they often talked directly to Duo -- not the way children did, in an imaginative way as if he might talk back (regardless of whether or not they knew he could), but merely using Duo as a focus for the aforementioned narration because he happened to have a human-like shape complete with ears. 

Now the guy said, in the half-under-his-breath tone people often used when they didn't need to be saying this aloud at all, "Should I put you in a box? Or maybe a gift bag? But that makes it seem so _formal_..." 

So Duo would be a surprise out of context this time, would he? That was less common than the bachelor party gag or birthday present, but not unheard of. 

"But just handing you over like this--" Duo believed the guy's eyes flicked specifically to his penis for a moment-- "seems really weird." He paused, considering, pointer finger still running pensively up and down his philtrum. "But wrapping paper would make it seem like a serious present, and I don't want her to think I want something in return..." 

'Her?' Now Duo perked up a bit. That was an unusual arrangement. 

"Not like I'd complain if she said, 'Oh, Eli, he's so great; you wanna get some coffee or something?'" He chuckled at this clearly absurd idea. 

Some light began to shine on this situation, though the nature of the present in hand still puzzled Duo. Who gave their crush an anatomically correct doll with no clothing? 

Eli's one-sided conversation obviously hadn't helped him reach a decision as to how Duo should be packaged, so he discontinued it and got up abruptly from the table. Evidently the matter remained on his mind, though, as he started clearing his breakfast dishes from beside the doll -- and not secondarily on his mind, either, if the half-hearted manner in which he 'cleaned up' was any indication. And partway through scraping the remaining eggs and cheese into the sink, without yet having rinsed it down or run the disposer, he apparently reached his decision. Abruptly he dropped everything he was doing, wiped his hands on his jeans, and returned to the table. 

Duo, watching him approach, hoped in some amusement that the crush, whatever else she might be, was the type of person that could effectively insist on some better basic cleanliness. Of course it made little difference to a plastic doll that never seemed to stain despite his realistic hair and in no danger whatsoever of contamination, but he knew a lot of humans wouldn't tolerate that food sitting there in the sink. 

"I'll just put you back in the Arc bag," Eli said decisively as he looked down at Duo. "Then she'll know I didn't spend a lot of money or anything, and it'll look like a casual, I-just-happened-to-find-this present." 

Though Duo still didn't understand the specifics of the situation, he had to agree -- not least because he _was_ an I-just-happened-to-find-this present. He wondered, though, whether Eli realized exactly how much a naked doll with a big ol' penis would make him look like a total creep when he gave it to some woman. 

Duo couldn't name the day of the week -- he did tend to lose track when the thrift store stay lasted more than a fortnight or so -- but Eli apparently had no work shift to get to. He'd wandered leisurely down several more Arc aisles even after finding Duo, had never hurried to get out and come home; did that imply a weekend? Duo supposed it was possible. In any case, Eli obviously had no problem with re-bagging Duo immediately in preparation for taking him to his next destination. 

Despite this, they didn't _leave_ immediately. Though the bag Duo again found himself wrapped in crackled a bit, he could still hear pretty well what went on outside it, and from the echo (and other sounds), they evidently occupied a bathroom for at least fifteen minutes before doing anything else. Since only about three of those minutes involved actual use of the toilet and a very thorough handwash thereafter, it had to be assumed Eli was concerning himself with his appearance in a mirror, and that the opening and closing of drawers and what sounded like a magnetic medicine cabinet played into that endeavor as well. Duo found this kinda cute, as it seemed to indicate how infatuated Eli was, but feared it would all be for nothing the very moment the woman opened this Arc bag and saw the would-be-casual but in reality quite suggestive present he'd brought her. 

Because of situations just like this, Duo had learned to deduce a fair amount from only what he could hear going on around him. And he speculated with some certainty that Eli was nervous as he drove wherever. Further monologue took place at first -- about whether or not she would be there and how she was _always_ there and should take more time off than she did because it wasn't like the other employees didn't do a good job but he supposed when you owned a place you got more paranoid about how it ran -- but after a while he turned on the radio. 

His pitch off for every single note, he sang along, first about flying like an eagle to the sea and then something fast and largely incomprehensible that seemed to involve cherry cola, and when he resumed talking to himself afterward -- this time incomprehensibly as the subsequent noisy advertisements drowned him out -- he seemed to be doing a tiny bit better. The deep breath he took once he'd stopped the car, however, before Duo was seized and lifted inside his crinkly plastic prison, indicated how nervous he still felt. 

Eli's determined footsteps across what sounded like a parking lot were followed by the entry chime inside their destination and the cars on the street outside fading. "Hi, there!" someone some distance away greeted. "Come on in -- oh, hi, Eli." 

"Hey," Eli returned the greeting, and Duo thought he struggled to sound natural. "Is Becca around?" 

"Bex!" the other voice, now nearer, called. "Come out here!" The tone suggested Becca would want to do so and that the speaker had no need to detail why. Duo smiled again; evidently Eli hung around this place enough not to need specific announcing. 

They'd stopped moving, having evidently reached their destination, and the volume of the other voice no longer changed as it asked how Eli had been. He answered only absently, and the amused edge to her reply made it clear she knew perfectly well where his real interest lay. And then Duo was conscious of Eli's grip tightening on the bag as a new voice from farther away said, "Oh, hey, Eli." 

"Hi!" Eli's reply was perhaps a little too enthusiastic, which he appeared to notice, if the far more subdued sound of his follow-up was any indication. "How's it going?" 

"Good, good," she replied jovially. "What about you?" 

"I'm great," said Eli. "I had to come by and -- I found this -- I thought this would be..." 

Duo was aware of his conveyance transferring from one grasp to another. If he'd been able to do either, he would have been biting his lip and holding his breath in agitated anticipation of the moment Becca pulled him out of the bag and saw exactly what Eli had brought her and all it implied. The bag unrolled, and a hand reached in for him, and Duo counted down to the moment when all of Eli's chances with its owner died an embarrassing death. 

Able to see something other than translucent white plastic at last, Duo looked up into Becca's face, both studying her features and watching for her reaction to the gift. The first struck him as not particularly attractive -- not that his opinion of her level of attractiveness mattered one whit to anyone -- and the second as not exactly what he'd expected. 

"Where did--" She glanced at the bag Duo had come out of. "Which Arc did you find this at?" 

Eli reminded her, "There's only one left, remember?" And it was a sad day when charitable secondhand stores started going out of business, no matter how much Duo loathed them. 

"Well, he's..." Becca looked down again, her gaze traversing Duo's entire figure and sticking, as predicted, on the penis, and as she hesitated before finishing her sentence, her jaw opened somewhat slackly for a moment. Duo waited, braced, for her to crush all of Eli's hopes and dreams. 

"He's _perfect_," Becca finished. Her astonished face rose again toward Eli, still gaping slightly. "How did -- you just came across this at the Arc?" 

"Yep." Eli seemed not only ridiculously pleased at her positive reaction (doubtless, in part, because she'd said one of the things he'd seemed so certain she wouldn't), but relieved as well. "Just laying there on the shelf with all these other toys." 

"Other toys _without_ dicks, I bet!" Becca grinned. 

"Yeah," Eli laughed. 

She moved suddenly. "Oh, he's going to be just _perfect_ in here! I think I even have..." She'd stepped into what seemed like a central island of sorts -- Duo couldn't turn his head to get a good look around without Eli and Becca, who'd both held him, seeing the movement, so he wasn't sure -- and pulled open a drawer. While she made rattling sounds digging through it, Duo stared up at the enthusiasm on her face and puzzled over this totally unexpected reaction and behavior. Though when after not too long she said excitedly, "Yes!" and extracted one of Duo's least favorite things in the world, he was distracted for a moment. 

"I can't believe you found something like that," the other woman -- the clerk that had already inhabited the central island -- remarked. "I didn't know they even _made_ Ken dolls with penises like that." 

"_I've_ never seen one before," Becca agreed as she adjusted the doll stand and then inserted Duo. "And look at his _hair_!" The latter, at least from the back of Duo's head down, had been wrapped in a taped roll of plastic for protection, and this Becca now removed, causing a faint crackle of static electricity Duo couldn't feel. 

"I thought you'd like it," Eli put in, still sounding very pleased. 

"I _love_ it," Becca enthused. "I'll get him an outfit made, and he'll go perfect in this display." She bent to make some brief rearrangement inside the referenced space before placing Duo, in his new hated doll stand, within. "For now he can just stand here naked." 

From inside the glass case beneath the counter where Duo found himself, he _had_ been planning on scrutinizing the room around him and figuring out exactly where he now lived, to the extent he could do so without turning his head. However, something much closer at hand and directly in his line of sight seized his attention and held it for quite some time. 

"Yeah, he looks good," said Eli. The two women, who had both hastened out of the island and around to where he stood to look at the display from the outside, voiced their agreement. 

Duo's compelling focus was his new roommate, a Barbie perhaps six inches away from him in a similar doll stand. She had, if Duo was any judge, had some red and black stripes added to her hair for variety, and her makeup redone with a fairly deft hand and a very small paintbrush, but other than that appeared to be a bog-standard blonde Caucasian Barbie -- except that she wore a shiny leather leotard that zipped up the front all the way to her chin, with a couple of perfectly round holes baring plastic breasts that had been modified with little nipples of some sort. Were they modeling clay? Duo couldn't tell. When was the last time he'd stared so hard at anyone's breasts? He didn't know. 

"He's just..." As far as Duo could tell out of the corner of his eye, Becca was shaking her head in wonder. "Perfect. Eli, thank you so much." 

"You're welcome," Eli smiled. 

"But seriously," the sales clerk put in, "when did they start making Ken dolls with penises?" 

From this angle it wasn't a certainty, but Duo thought the back of Barbie's outfit narrowed into a thong that would not, of course, fit between her buttocks since there would be no real groove there, but would at least _suggest_. In the last few years Mattel had started adding texturing to Barbie's crotch area to suggest panties, but this model, fortunately for the current aesthetic, was one of the older ones without that embellishment. 

Becca shook half-clenched fists in the air in excitement. "I need to go get some stuff for him. I need to go to the fabric store." 

"I can hold the fort," the clerk assured her readily, obviously having expected this, "if you want to go right away." 

Barbie's studded leather armbands were interesting -- more in the question of why she wore them than for their own merits -- but Duo couldn't look at them for long. Because her boots -- where _had_ those boots come from? It wasn't that Duo interested himself excessively in Barbie fashion, just that by necessity he happened to know a lot more about it than many people did... and he'd _never_ seen boots like that on a Barbie doll before. If they were homemade, they were the most professional-looking homemade Barbie footwear _he'd_ ever seen. Could you get stuff like that at a fabric store? They were the same shiny black leather (or imitation thereof) as her leotard thing, and they came all the way up past her knees. The buckles in front were almost confusing to the eye, and he could tell by the bows peeking out from behind her thighs that they laced up in back. 

"Can I come with?" Eli said this with the air of one taking the first big, scary step down a path long eyed but never until now embarked upon. "Buy you lunch on the way?" 

"Eli, you just got me, like, the best present ever," Becca protested with a grin. 

"Yeah, but I'm hungry," Eli shrugged, doing a really good job on the nonchalance -- better than Duo had expected, actually; he must have practiced. 

"OK, fine," said Becca, turning a complete three-sixty and patting her pockets as if trying to determine what she had on her right this moment. "Just let's go _now_. I want to make something like _that_ for him." 

Duo couldn't see where she pointed, what kind of outfit she had in mind, but he also couldn't help joining in the laugh of everyone else besides Becca at her adorable excitement and enthusiasm. His laugh was quiet enough; even those that had held him wouldn't hear it through the glass. 

The land definitely lay differently than he'd realized. Obviously to Becca, who must have created the outfit the Barbie across from him wore, a penis doll wasn't nearly so creepy as it might be to many others, and in fact was something she specifically wanted. And clearly Eli had known that. Eli had anticipated, in fact, every little nuance of how this would come across. Knowing she would appreciate the offer but at the same time fully aware of exactly how creepy it _still_ might seem; knowing also that it would be a professionally welcome item but wanting it to come across as a personal gift -- yet, again, not wanting to seem like a weirdo trying to send an inappropriate message, Eli had been in an interestingly awkward position. Of course Duo could only guess at all of this, but he could also easily spot the potential dilemma, and thought he assessed the situation correctly. 

It made him a little sad, now, that he hadn't initiated a conversation while he'd had the chance, as he came to the realization that Eli was truly a decent guy. Maybe decent enough to have accepted the humanity of the doll he'd bought at the Arc... though counting on that often proved unwise. And the opportunity had passed, since this display case made no good venue to try to start a friendship from, especially with someone that didn't even work here. 

"So what-- I'm just curious," Becca was remarking as she and Eli walked away from the counter toward the door-- "what were you _actually_ looking for at the Arc when you found that doll?" 

"No, I was actually there looking for a doll with a penis," Eli said in a tone that barely maintained its seriousness all the way through the statement. "I go check every month or so in case they have one." 

Becca's laugh, half drowned out by the entry chime, was the last Duo heard of them. 

Deeming it finally safe to turn his head and look around, he dragged his gaze from the nearby leather-clad doll and surveyed the rest of the room, as far as he could through the single transparent surface facing out from the island. And gradually he realized exactly why he'd been such a welcome offering here. 

Two mannequins of shiny black plastic, which would be visible from outside through the windows that flanked the doors, wore outfits similar to the one Barbie did -- one leather like hers, the other of a lacier and more ruffled variety but just as revealing. Behind one of them stood a rack of more clothing, apparently available for both male and female bodies and tailored for optimum exposure or at least suggestion of primary and secondary sexual organs. Duo wondered if Becca made it all herself. In the other direction, a rack of tubes and plastic bottles in a number of colors bore a sign that read, _All lubricants / Buy one get one half off_. In between that and some shelves full of whips, gags, masks, and various unidentifiable items of restraint, visible only with difficulty from his angle, Duo could make out a more distant set of shelves that seemed to be full of videos whose covers featured a lot of flesh colors. 

That was about all he could see of his new home, and all he was likely ever to see if he retained this spot -- though Becca would presumably have to pull him back out of the display when she had the outfit made and needed to get him into it -- but he anticipated that listening to customers and staff discuss items in stock and purchases being made would shed light on what lay beyond his field of vision. 

And all he could think, with a bemused sort of gaping he couldn't physically affect but that was mentally just as slack-jawed as Becca had been at the sight of his penis, was, _Well, **this** should be educational._


	10. Nine Decades: Season Finale (2008)

Felishawna was never silent, never even quiet. She chattered nonstop to anyone nearby, or to Duo in the absence of properly human companions, or to animals she happened to encounter, or to herself or the walls if necessary. When not talking, she sang songs of her own invention, or made strange noises with a perseverance that eventually grated even on a doll with 85 years of practice dealing with repetitive tedium. 

He would have thought a child so relentlessly noisy would be impossible to lose track of, but it seemed the very constancy of her sound rendered it transparent so she blended into the background. She made no attempts at sneaking anywhere, yet somehow did it remarkably successfully; the fading of her childish vocalizations evidently struck those around her only on a subconscious level, very much like, say, the discontinuance of distant construction noises outside at lunchtime: it might be a while before anyone actively recognized their absence and asked, _"Where's Feli?"_

Thus Duo felt little surprise when Felishawna's relatives failed to notice she'd wandered out of the living room and into her uncle Leon's bedroom. The doll was uniquely positioned to observe both that she'd done so _and_ the lack of notice on their part, since she'd dropped him in the hall on her way at a near midpoint between the two. 

She hadn't turned the light on in her new venue of play, whether because she couldn't find the switch, or couldn't reach it, or for some mysterious reason reserved for herself, Duo didn't know. In any case, she made scant noise in there -- just quiet shufflings, as if she were pulling the linens off the bed (something she loved to do), and, for the moment, a sort of chant that was her childish version of a rap: "I gotta tell you a story about the princess and the time she was going out, fighting the bad guys of evil ray, being a pirate on Saturday, swim in the pool and the ocean lake, eating the hamburgers and the cake." 

Meanwhile, in the living room, most of the conversation between Felishawna's mother and uncle could be heard even over the sounds of football from the television. 

"I wish you would've stayed later last night," Tonya lamented. "Mom got going about Feli again, and I bet she wouldn't have if you were there." 

"Sorry." This apology Duo could barely make out; he hadn't seen much of Leon thus far, but already got the impression of a very calm and quiet person. 

"You better look out if _you_ ever get married and have kids; then she'll be on your case too. But maybe," Tonya added with a sigh, "only if she doesn't like your wife." 

In the dark bedroom to Duo's left, the shuffling sounds continued. He couldn't see what Felishawna was up to -- he lay on his face -- but he could hear her latest song clearly, even more easily than the TV-obscured sounds of her relatives. "I've been deeming of a true-love's spike, and a Pokémon who comes with Mike. So to meeve a mife of emless this..." 

"Mom likes Estevan," Leon was assuring his sister. 

"Sure," Tonya allowed grudgingly. "She likes him _personally_, but she doesn't like us living so far away even though we both got great jobs out there and I _love_ New York." 

"That's probably a grandma thing." Leon undoubtedly shrugged as he said this. "She doesn't get to see Feli as often as she wants." 

Tonya gave a frustrated sigh. 

In the bedroom, the child in question chanted, "Beetle butt, bootle butt, bitle butt, butt. Butt, butt, butt, butt, butt, butt, butt." 

"It's not just that. She thinks Feli's problems came from her dad, or his side of the family. She blames Es for all the trouble Feli keeps getting in." 

Leon sounded surprised as he asked, "She said that?" 

"No." Tonya sighed again. "But I can tell." She continued in a grumbling tone as if it were a direct follow-up, "There's no way we can come back after that." It took Duo a moment to realize, with some relief, that she referred to the football game and not her relationship with her mom. 

Leon agreed regretfully, and that he didn't question Tonya's stated awareness of their mother's opinion seemed to indicate he found the assessment undeniable. 

"And the worst part of it is she might be right." 

"See, I'ma pold you, like you pold me, trash rules everything around me. See-ya la la la la lee-ya, la la la la bee-ya." Duo vaguely recognized the song this was a take on, and, believing it to be about a prostitute, wondered if Tonya knew Feli had listened to it often enough to imitate it even this much. The child went on with more of her chanting version of rap: "She use to be the sweetest girl ever. Ever ever bevver. Now she's the princess of all the world, all the burld. She's gonna get you and make you do what she wants. Ride all the horses and do the dahnce. Do the dahnce, do the dahnce, do the dahnce." She saw fit to end this repetition with a drawn-out hiss on the last sibilant before resuming, "See, I'ma fell you..." 

"Estevan always had behavior issues as a kid, he told me, and a lot of it's just like what Feli's dealing with." Tonya sounded downright angry as she protested, "But the answer to that isn't to take her away from her dad and send her to live with her grandma across the country! It's not like being around him is making it worse somehow; if she _did_ inherit something from him, that's, like, a genetic or chemical thing, not like he's a bad influence or something!" 

"So what _is_ the answer?" Leon sounded truly concerned with his niece's welfare. 

Said niece had mostly ceased her shuffling, but was busy with another rousing chorus of _Beetle butt, bootle butt_, only slightly more adjectival this time: "Beetly butt, bootly butt, bitelly butt, beetly butt, buttelly, buttelly, buttelly, buttelly..." She seemed to be stuck on that word and enjoying it very much; she kept saying it for the next minute or so. She started tripping over the syllables eventually, adding extra t's where she didn't necessarily want them, and after a while shifted to blowing harshly through her teeth in mingled amusement and frustration. 

"God, Lee, I wish I knew. The counselor at her school wants us to see an actual child psychiatrist, but Es doesn't want to. He's afraid they're going to want to put her on drugs, and he doesn't like that. He got through _his_ childhood OK without drugs, and she's so young..." 

"And what do _you_ think?" 

"I don't know. She's such a good kid; she's smart and nice and creative; she just..." It seemed a significant relief to Tonya to be able to discuss this with her sympathetic listener of a brother, and Duo was glad this vacation had given her the chance to do so. He agreed with her, too: Felishawna _was_ a good kid, at least at heart if not always in practice. 

And she'd come out of the bedroom now, as indicated by the random noises a few feet above the doll's head. She picked Duo up and added him to whatever she carried, obviously acquired within, then turned toward the far end of the hall and the bathroom. 

Here Duo could no longer hear the adults' conversation -- the TV with which their voices had always been in competition now conspired with Feli's echoing speech nearer to Duo's ears to drown them out -- but he regretted this very little. The discussion might make Tonya feel a bit better, but seemed likely to have no other useful outcome. Even Duo, creeping up on a century of experience with children, didn't know what to do for Felishawna; what chance did Tonya and Leon have to figure it out? 

Feli couldn't reach the medicine cabinet, which relieved Duo since he didn't doubt she would eat something inside it believing (or pretending to believe) it was candy, but the items beside the sink and on the bathtub ledges were easily added to her collection of stolen goods. These included hand soap, aftershave, toothpaste, and body wash. 

Duo _had_ met children with the same prolificacy of oral noise as Feli, the same endless energy toward talking and singing and making strange sounds either for their own amusement or in interaction with others. They, like Feli, had gotten in trouble at school for never being able to keep quiet or for responding to statements made or questions asked with silly irrelevant chatter. The only cure for this behavior Duo had ever observed had been dogged repetition of commands to be quiet or to answer properly, and he felt this had only _repressed_ the noise, not rechanneled it in the right direction or taught the kids how to manage and control it. He didn't want to see Feli come to believe that expressing herself was shameful and become a sullen, speechless victim of a constant, _"Shut up."_

A cheer from both adults in the other room overcame the television, and Feli joined in with an incredibly squeaky "Wooooo!" that sounded more like a ghostly whine than a cry of joy. She didn't look up, though, from where she'd seated herself, legs akimbo, on the bathroom floor and started organizing the objects in front of her. 

Other traits Feli demonstrated had been shared by other children in Duo's past as well. She had a tendency to resent authority, and to do over-the-top silly things in response to direct commands, and Duo had definitely encountered that before on playgrounds and in schools and even in homes. Of course that led to trouble too, and Duo had never seen an adequate correctional process for it. The problem, he thought, lay more with the authority figures anyway, a problem that existed on too large a scale to hope much for. 

The largest item Feli had purloined was a replica NFL jersey in pristine silver and black, and this she now arranged in a rough rectangle on the linoleum before her, crumpling its edges to create a sort of container. She sang nonsense words as she did so, but under her breath so Duo only caught the occasional 'zoodles' or 'poopermooper.' 

Where she got the energy for the ongoing activities and excitement that filled her life, Duo, like Tonya and her teachers at school, could not begin to guess. Well, no, that wasn't quite true: the constant movement and noise and the thoughtlessness or even clumsiness that often came with them reminded him very much of the girl's father, Estevan -- a nice guy whose possession of these traits didn't _seem_ to have damaged his childhood beyond repair... but that didn't help with the current issues. 

Into the jersey Feli had now placed all the other objects she'd gathered except Duo. She began bouncing him from one to the next and the next, and doing his dialogue in a weird falsetto as usual. "Oh, I gotta get across... I gotta jump on the... stepping-rocks, and not fall into the swamp!" She paused, expression thoughtful. "I need a Real Swamp," she announced. 

Duo groaned internally as she then, clumsily with her small hands, popped open the bottle of body wash and began pouring it out onto the jersey. Since she'd left him lying in the swamp, he received a healthy dose of the gooey substance on his own body. He probably needed a wash anyway (well, he _certainly_ did now). The bottle plopped down beside him, and next she unscrewed the cap on the aftershave. A much runnier liquid, it came out faster than she'd intended, and she giggled as she added its entirety to the bog. It made her cough, though, and Duo wished he knew what it smelled like. 

Construction of the Real Swamp finished and the aftershave bottle taking its position as a stepping-rock, more satisfying play could commence. Once again Duo hopped from item to item, 'narrating' his journey in an absurd voice. Feli, almost immediately covered in body wash and aftershave, squirmed at the sensation of the latter's 'icy cold' as well as the combination beginning to soak into her pants. Of course the jersey's edges presented no significant barrier -- they hadn't even crumpled effectively in the first place -- and soon the bathroom floor swam in a slowly expanding tide of personal care products. 

Feli tried to sing a swamp song, tried to pretend she was foundering in muddy water from which Duo would have to rescue her, but signs of real discomfort from the aftershave marred her ability to perform or even to enjoy herself. Eventually she set Duo down again and started pushing the muck off her hands as best she could; her face threatened tears. 

Perhaps because the little girl had gone silent, perhaps drawn by what must be an overpowering smell, Tonya entered at this moment. There was a prolonged lack of respiration as widened eyes twitched from one aspect of the disaster to another, and then the bathroom exploded into chaos. Tonya always tried her best not to react too harshly to Felishawna's escapades, but this child would push any parent's patience to its limits -- and Duo thought embarrassment at today's mayhem having been wreaked upon her _brother's possessions_ exacerbated her response. 

Demanding to know what Feli had been thinking, declaring that she knew better than to do something like this, and with multiple interjections not quite profane expressing her various emotions, Tonya hauled Feli to her feet and pushed her toward the sink. Feli had begun outright crying, and every word from her mother's mouth raised the volume until she was bawling and sobbing roughly. Not much more gently did Tonya 'help' her daughter wash her hands and forearms, demand of Leon in the doorway whether he had any washcloths, and begin scrubbing Feli's legs and shoes. Feli complained incoherently through her misery that it hurt, that it felt like when she wet her pants (something Duo had known her to do at least three times since he'd been with her), and this did not improve Tonya's mood. 

From his bed in the swamp, the doll had a decent view of Leon at the bathroom entrance. His soothing words and mild suggestions of assistance had been totally ignored and overridden by his sister's more forceful activities and tirade, and now he stood silently looking on. Whenever his gaze strayed to the possibly ruined jersey on the floor, he winced, but otherwise he showed no sign of being upset, and certainly none of being angry. In fact, though he'd schooled his handsome face into a somber expression appropriate to his niece's misdeed, hints of amusement showed now and then, especially when Feli referred in anguish to her Real Swamp. 

Eventually Tonya whirlwinded her daughter out of the bathroom. Duo heard her requesting a trash bag Feli could sit on so she didn't dirty the rental car, and then there were hasty goodbyes. Out of Feli's continued roaring Duo managed to hear the protesting cry, "Peanuts! Peanuts Hair!" She called him Peanuts Hair X. Correa whenever she hadn't invented some context-dependent temporary name, so at least he wasn't entirely forgotten. But that didn't mean anyone extracted him from his slippery bath and allowed him to go with her, and soon her noises were muffled by the apartment door closing. 

So there went that relationship. It had happened so fast, it was as if a guillotine had sliced down into his life and neatly severed him from his companion. Again. And he hadn't even talked to this one yet. He hadn't known what to make of her, what angle to approach her from, what reaction to expect. At that very moment, he began to consider it rather tiring and pointless to be so cautious about talking to people. 

Whether he'd struck up a conversational friendship with her or not, Felishawna now numbered among those whose stories he'd become invested in but would never see the end of. Would her parents figure out what her deal was and how best to respond to it? Would she improve in her school performance and her behavior? Could she find some way, perhaps through her artistic propensities, to become a productive member of society in the future? Or would she die sometime from falling out of a tree not meant for climbing or playing with paper clips and power outlets? Once again, for the nth time, Duo would probably never know. 

Yet this situation differed in several little ways from many in his past. Tonya and Feli had plane tickets back to New York tomorrow, but might they not swing by here and pick Duo up once Tonya's desperate annoyance faded? Duo doubted it, but it wasn't impossible. If they didn't, might not Leon mail the doll to his niece? Sending packages no longer cost an arm and a leg; it could happen. And if he didn't, Duo had already decided to talk to him. He seemed kind-hearted and not given to extravagant reactions; he might prove a better friend even than Felishawna -- on whose progress he could keep Duo updated. In any of these cases, Duo would be able to continue following Feli's story after all. Communication had become so much easier, faster, better these days. Maybe these days were just better. 

That prospects had evidently improved so much gave him a feeling not precisely of _hope_, but of relative sanguinity. If distance travel and package shipping were more affordable and communication was easier... if times were better... if being separated from his caretaker no longer automatically meant the severance of all interaction with and knowledge of them... his life, such as it was, must become better as well. Surely this improvement must herald greater improvements to come! 

After all, he hadn't been left lying on his face this time. He wasn't in a trash can or a doghouse or a forgotten toy-box. Sure, his hair and clothes were saturated with gunk he couldn't smell or feel, his hearing a little muffled by the same, and he had no idea what Tonya or Leon planned. But he truly believed (perhaps only because he chose to, perhaps compelled by outside circumstances) that things were, just as he was, looking up.


	11. Seeing Red Part 0

Wafting incense smoke and the cheerful greeting of the most cheerful of the various cheerful young ladies that worked here assaulted Hajime as he stepped into Forest of Four. He'd grown accustomed to the first -- apparently no self-respecting follower of shallow mysticism would set foot in a store that did not reek of incense, and he recognized the need to appease the customer base -- and, to be honest, he didn't mind the smell _too_ much. The second, however, was consistently jarring. 

"Good morning, Mr. Saitou!" the clerk chirped. Her thoughts, though noisy, primarily related to work, and Hajime could appreciate her professionalism if not her mental control. When he nodded at her, she went on, "He's with another client right now, but you can wait for him over by the hall." She pointed to the area in question, with which he was familiar enough, and he nodded again. 

The chairs against the wall beside the corridor leading to the employees' area were, to all appearances, designed for people waiting for friends in the fitting room. Hajime didn't appreciate being mistaken for the companion of someone that would shop a place like this, but had little choice; fortunately, Aoshi usually didn't keep him waiting too long. Aoshi didn't care much for people -- living people, at least -- and even this circumstance of having two appointments on the same morning was unusual. 

It would be an even more unusual circumstance if the medium had _three_ appointments on the same morning, but a young man sat crookedly in the chair closest to the hallway very much as if he too awaited a conference with Aoshi. This was a little irritating; now Hajime would be forced either to sit beside this stranger, one of whose legs was drawn up so the foot protruded under the armrest onto the next chair over, or take the seat closest to the fitting room. Disliking both options, he decided to remain standing. He did give the young man a dark, somewhat annoyed scrutiny, though. 

The guy didn't really seem to fit here. He didn't _sparkle_, for one thing. He didn't have that empty-headed look Hajime had seen on the faces of so many patrons of this establishment -- the look that promised to believe (and consequently purchase) anything at all that said 'cosmic' somewhere on it. Actually, the best word for this kid was 'punk' -- assuming Hajime had his subcultural terms straight, that is; he was fairly sure the absurd hair, excessive jewelry, spikes, and chains signified this. In general it strengthened the impression that the young man had come to see Aoshi and not to shop. 

The young man had been mirroring the examination, and now asked lazily, "Exorcist?" He gestured casually to the sword in Hajime's hand. 

Hajime nodded, his guess confirmed. Nobody here just for an 'I do believe in faeries!' bumper sticker would have made the connection between his weapon and his profession. 

Removing his foot from the chairs and stretching spiky-black-jean-clad legs out in front of him, the young man said, "You can sit down... I don't know what's taking him so long, but he's _gotta_ be finished soon..." 

Tacitly declining the invitation, Hajime glanced down the hall at the closed door to Aoshi's office. "You'd think with as much as he prefers to be left alone, he wouldn't schedule appointments so close together." 

The young man laughed. "You've met him, huh?" 

"Many times." 

"And here I thought I knew all his regulars." The young man, Hajime found when he turned back, was gazing thoughtfully up at him. "I must just have missed you every time. You come here a lot?" 

"Sometimes." Hajime's tone was slightly skeptical at the prying question. He didn't really care who or what the guy was, or he would already have pushed past the somewhat blaring thoughts into a deeper part of his head to find out, but he couldn't help feeling a _little_ curious about a punk teenager he'd never seen before that seemed to know Aoshi as well as he did. 

"He dig up for work you," the kid wondered, "or what?" 

Hajime raised a brow. "None of your business." 

The young man scowled faintly, coiling back into a less relaxed position. Hajime was interested to see a slight aura appear around him at this, but it faded along with the scowl as the young man shook his head. Then he reached out. "I'm Sano," he said. 

Wondering why they were doing this, Hajime stared at the extended hand for a moment before shaking it and giving his own name. 

"I see red," Sano explained unnecessarily, stretching his legs out again and putting his hands behind his head. "Aoshi keeps me medicated." His grin turned somewhat harried. "I especially don't need to be dealing with this shit this week; I've got papers to write _and _finals." 

Hajime nodded his understanding. Sano, he guessed -- actually, it was more of a sense by now than a guess -- went to the local college, and angry shades were undoubtedly distracting at the end of a semester. 

"You really can sit down." Sano patted the seat next to him. 

"I have no desire to sit on your dirty footprints." 

"Wow, fine." There was that aura again, flaring up with Sano's annoyance. "Jerk." 

Hajime smirked. "You don't just _see_ red," he observed. 

"No," Sano replied, a little wearily. "I absorb 'em for people sometimes; good way to make money, which you probably know, but then I have to find a way to get rid of it all." 

With a disdainful laugh Hajime said, "Stupid of you to absorb anything when you knew you had finals coming up." 

As he'd expected, Sano flamed again. "Hey, I'm not just going to--" But his anger faded as he realized Hajime had done it deliberately. Then he seemed torn between mild appreciation and continued irritation at being manipulated. Eventually he settled on a low simmer, his angry aura minimal and his face merely resigned. 

"Just doing my job," Hajime murmured complacently. 

Sano snorted. 

At that moment, the door at the end of the employees' hallway opened, and they heard someone saying, "Thank you very much, Mr. Shinomori!" in a tone far too bright for Mr. Shinomori to be likely to appreciate. Sano stood and watched the cheerful customer emerge from the hall. Then he turned to Hajime and smiled slightly. "Well, it was good to meet you," he said with a wave. And for some reason he actually seemed to mean it. 

Hajime hesitated, then nodded. He saw no reason not to, since he would probably never run into the guy again.


	12. Seeing Red Part 1

To dial the number he'd been given, Sano found himself a little hesitant. The man hadn't exactly been pleasant to him when they'd met before, after all. What eventually convinced him was the reflection that the worst that could possibly happen was Hajime being rude to him again and perhaps hanging up without listening to everything he had to say -- whereas the _best_ that could happen was getting rid of this little problem. Sano glanced over his shoulder, grimaced, and hit the 'send' key on his phone. 

"This is Hajime," came the voice he'd expected after only a few rings. 

"Hey," Sano began. "You probably don't remember me, but I met you at Forest of Four, like, last December..." He cleared his throat. "My name's Sano... I see red... You were there with a sword..." He paused, waiting for Hajime's acknowledgment. Hajime, however, said nothing, and eventually Sano went on. "Well, Aoshi says you're good, and I've got a problem. There's this shade that's been hanging around for a couple of weeks now -- I mean hanging around _me_, specifically, not just around somewhere where I go or anything; it's like the damn thing is _haunting_ me, but I have no idea who it came from or why it would be -- and I can't get rid of it." 

"Red?" Hajime asked. 

"That's the thing!" Sano turned to face the shade, which was still drifting around his living room. "It's perfectly red! I should be able to deal with it, but every time I absorb it it just comes back! It's _weird_, too; it's not... solid... like they usually are. There's this empty shape of a person, and the red's around that like an outline." 

Hajime's tone sounded completely different than before as he asked, "When you say you absorb it and it 'comes back,' what exactly do you mean?" He seemed far more interested all of a sudden. 

"I mean the _same anger_ comes back," answered Sano in some aggravation. "It's like it never ends; no matter how much I absorb, there's always more! And I can't just keep taking it in, or I get so mad I start destroying stuff!" 

"And this shade follows you around?" 

"Yeah." 

"No matter where you go?" 

"Yeah... to school and everything." 

"Do you know the park off 32nd street?" 

"Uh, yeah?" Sano was fairly certain he did, anyway. "The one by that toy store?" 

"Can you meet me there in half an hour?" 

"Um..." This was not what he'd expected at all. "Yeah, sure." Of course, he'd been basing his expectations on the one brief conversation they'd had and Aoshi's warning that Hajime was neither a people person nor likely to want to do any kind of work for free. 

"I'll see you there, then." And Hajime ended the call. 

Sano's car being a piece of shit, he didn't greatly appreciate having to drive to a park twenty minutes away, and from the suggestion of locale he guessed Hajime didn't live in the Asian district. He hadn't objected, though, since _he_ was the one essentially demanding favors in this situation. He did wish Hajime had named a longer space of time, however; he could have taken the bus. 

The place had a playground, a field with a backstop, and its own parking lot. Here Hajime waited, when Sano arrived, beside a really nice car. Although individual jobs tended to pay fairly well, being an exorcist was still an uncertain profession at best, given the inconsistency of the work, and Sano wouldn't have thought anyone in that trade could afford such a nice vehicle; Hajime _must_ have some other source of income. 

As when they'd met at Aoshi's store, the exorcist wore a suit and tie; it looked great, but Sano had to wonder if he dressed that way all year round. March wasn't too bad, but in a month or two most days would be far too warm outside for a suit coat. Hajime also carried a sword again, though Sano wasn't entirely certain it was the _same_ sword. 

Hajime didn't bother with a real greeting, only asked, "Where's the shade?" 

Sano had been absorbing _so_ much angry energy lately, thanks to his unusual visitor, that it was good to have an object on which to release some of it. "Hi to you too!" he said in annoyance, and stalked out of the parking lot toward a bench near the playground. Hajime followed, and as Sano took a seat he informed him with less indignation, "It sometimes takes him a while to catch up when I go somewhere unfamiliar. I tried to lose him that way for a while, but he always found me again." 

"'He?'" echoed Hajime. 

"'He' like 'aitsu,'" Sano shrugged, citing a pronoun that, while it carried a masculine connotation, was not necessarily limited to it. 

Hajime nodded. So obviously he belonged to the relatively large segment of the city's population that spoke Japanese, whether or not he lived in the Asian district. Not that this surprised Sano, given his accent. 

"So what's your deal?" Sano wondered somewhat idly, slumping down so as to lean his head against the back of the bench. "I mean, what do you see?" 

"Everything." 

Sano sat up straight. "Really? That's awesome!" Those that could see shades of all colors were incredibly rare. 

Hajime seemed to add, "In white," almost against his will -- as if he felt compelled to be honest but was as irritated at the compulsion as he was at the fact. 

"Oh." Sano sat back again. That made it less significant. Still must be fairly convenient for exorcism, though. 

"So tell me about this unusual shade," said Hajime in a somewhat dictatorial tone. 

"He showed up, um..." Sano had to think for a moment. 

"You should take better notes on things like this," Hajime broke in derisively. Sano believed this particular statement was meant to be provoking, and didn't mind at all. If Hajime could handle his anger, it was definitely a relief to let it out. 

"I'm not a pro, OK?" was his irritated retort. "I only take notes at school. Anyway, I think it was just at the end of February... the twenty-fifth, I'm pretty sure. So it's been almost exactly three weeks -- not long enough for him to get used up... except, like I told you, I've used him up I think five times now." 

"What were you doing when he showed up?" 

Sano scratched his head. "Homework? I think. No," he corrected himself, "I think I'd finished what I was working on and was just messing around online." 

"Porn?" asked Hajime, without apparent implication. 

"What?" Sano was more surprised than anything else. "Is that supposed to make me mad? It was just normal websites and shit." Who really got their porn from the internet, anyway? That stuff was brutal; no amount of anti-virus or spyware-killing software could make _that_ sex safe. 

Hajime smirked, and continued with his interrogation. "Had you done any magic any time beforehand that might have attracted the shade?" 

"I don't really 'do magic,'" replied Sano, scratching his head. "So, no. Least not that I'm aware of." 

"No friends at your home casting spells? No recent séances?" 

"Nope." 

"Have you tried the medicine you get from Aoshi? Does it inhibit your ability to see this shade?" 

"Yes and no. I usually don't take the stuff except when something's going on I really need to concentrate on, because..." Actually there was no real reason to get into that; Hajime undoubtedly wasn't interested. "Anyway, yeah, I tried it; it didn't work. I mean, it worked a little, but not enough. This shade's pretty strong; I could still feel the anger." 

Hajime nodded, and then unexpectedly asked precisely what Sano had just been thinking he wouldn't be interested in knowing. 

"Oh," replied Sano with a shrug, "I don't take it when I don't have to because it makes my head..." He gestured vaguely to the organ in question. "Fuzzy. Blurs my magical senses, I guess, is the best way to put it." 

"And that bothers you, even though you don't really do magic?" 

"Yeah, it's like... it's like having a sinus infection: there's this unpleasant feeling that maybe doesn't actually stop you from doing anything, but you can't ignore it." 

Again Hajime nodded. He was about to say something else (possibly criticize Sano's incomplete description of sinus infections), but at just that moment Sano felt washing over him the anger that had become all too familiar these days. "Oh, fuck," he growled, interrupting his companion. "Here he comes."


	13. Seeing Red Part 2

The shade appeared exactly as Sano had described it. That is to say, to a necrovisually colorblind exorcist, the shade could easily be pictured as exactly what Sano had described. What Hajime actually saw came close enough: a glowing white haze approaching across the park's green field at that uncannily swift but somehow leisurely speed shades usually moved with; something more oblong than the typical amorphous but generally spherical shape favored by the collections of mindless emotional energy people often left behind when they died -- and, indeed, as it drew closer, visibly hollow inside. Once it had begun hovering around their bench, in fact, Hajime thought he could make out the vaguely humanoid shape of its center. 

Sano stood and walked a few paces across the sidewalk into the grass. He turned, and, with a scowl, flung out his arms. "Meet my stalker," he said as the shade moved to resume its orbit around him. 

Hajime also stood, unsheathed his sword, and approached. The glowing figure in the air didn't seem to react to him at all, only drifted slowly and apparently aimlessly around Sano. This was odd; usually angry shades were (predictably enough) aggressive, one of the reasons they were a problem. But this one just floated. 

The sword Aoshi had modified for him in December had so far proven worth every one of the considerably many dollars Hajime had spent on it, and did not let him down now. As he drew nearer, the blade smoothly, quickly turned red -- at which Sano made an admiring sound, but said nothing. Bracing himself, concentrating on the removal of the shade from existence, Hajime thrust the sword into the glow in front of him. 

Whoever had left this anger behind had been strong-willed and persistent, and perhaps a little crazy. The anger itself was fierce and gave the impression, somehow, of being only the tip of the iceberg -- wherever it came from, there was a lot more of it. And for all this, it wasn't a problem to deal with. The aura writhed, clinging to the figure in its center, did not counterattack, and soon gave way to Hajime's steady desire for its dissipation. Slowly the air cleared; the aura vanished, rendering the floating figure invisible. 

Invisible, but not absent. Without the shade anger, in fact, it was discernible on its own, though Hajime couldn't have described how he sensed its presence. But there was one thing he felt at least closer to certain of now. He returned to the bench and sat down again, thoughtful. 

Sano joined him there. "Too easy, huh?" he commented, gesturing to the air where the shade had been. "But then it always comes back." 

Hajime nodded slowly. 

"So what do you think?" 

"I think..." Hajime said, "that you've got a real ghost here." 

Again Sano sat bolt upright in surprise. "What? Are you serious?" 

"You notice it doesn't attack." 

"Yeah, that _is_ kinda weird." 

"And the shape." 

"Shit..." 

They sat still for a while, staring at almost nothing -- though Hajime thought he could already see a faint glow gathering around the invisible spirit again. 

Finally Sano muttered in wonder, "A ghost... a real ghost..." 

Shades, Hajime's stock in trade, were a measurable, understandable phenomenon. But ghosts... ghosts were another story. Nobody knew why, every once in a great while, a human soul with thoughts and emotions and memories intact would remain after its body had died. An exorcist considered himself lucky to _hear_ about a ghost cropping up somewhere during his career. Dealing with a real ghost could make an exorcist's reputation. Which was why Hajime had come out here to meet Sano at all upon hearing the description of the apparition haunting him. 

From the white aura that was definitely gathering again, Hajime looked down to the sword that lay for now across his lap. Interestingly, the blade had never quite lost its red tinge, as if the angry aura had never actually gone. 

"But who would be haunting _me_?" Sano finally wondered. 

"You have no idea?" 

"No! I haven't had anyone die _any_ time recently... my grandma went about five years ago, but that'd be way too long for her to be showing up now, and she wasn't this angry anyway." 

"You'd probably know if it was a close relation in any case." 

Sano nodded, and another long silence followed as they watched the ghost's aura grow and Hajime contemplated. Finally he said, "I'd like to have my familiars take a look at this." He had hesitated about this because taking the ghost anywhere would involve taking Sano to the same place, and inviting a client to his own home pushed some boundaries. But so did encountering an actual ghost... and, considering they hadn't actually discussed services and payment yet, Sano wasn't _exactly_ a client anyway. 

Sano seemed less interested in those particular boundaries, and instead commented, "Don't think I've ever heard of an exorcist with familiars before." 

Hajime shrugged. "I'm more of a communicator than a necrovisual." 

"Oh." Then Sano sat up straight yet again, demanding, "So does that mean you've been reading my mind this whole time?" 

Hajime smirked. "Not if I could help it." 

"So why are you an exorcist, then?" Sano asked this in some haste, a little flustered, making a very obvious attempt not to think anything he didn't want Hajime to hear. When people did this, the result was usually that the thought they wanted to repress got broadcast loudly enough for Hajime to catch it even without trying. In this case, somewhat to his surprise, it was, _...probably heard me thinking what a sexy voice he's got..._

Young men finding Hajime's voice sexy -- or, rather, _anyone_ finding _anything_ about Hajime sexy -- was an extraordinary (and unsought) occurrence, and he had to admit it threw him off a bit. Fortunately, Sano's question was one everyone even a little involved in magic asked when they found out he didn't make his living in the branch where he had the most natural talent, so he had a ready answer. "None of the communication career options appealed to me." 

"I hear the government loves communicators, though." 

"Mostly to monitor and control the general awareness of magic." 

"So you'd rather be beating up shades than brainwashing people?" Sano shrugged slightly. "I guess that makes sense." Hajime got the feeling Sano thought so because the idea of beating something up was so much more straightforward than that of brainwashing. 

This largely pointless exchange had moved them past the bulk of Sano's nervousness regarding Hajime's telepathic abilities (as well as the bulk of Hajime's disorientation regarding Sano's thoughts about him), so Hajime stood and said, "My familiars may be able to confirm whether or not this is a real ghost." For good measure he added, "Since _you_ obviously can't tell." 

It worked. Sano jumped up as well, flaring bright again, and retorted, "Well, neither can you!" 

"Why don't you follow me to my house?" 

Sano's angry aura dissipated and was followed by no notable resurgence; he seemed to have a significant excess of internalized energy that couldn't possibly be making his day-to-day life any easier. And since it was amusing to watch him get mad, Hajime would gladly try to draw it out. So as he headed toward his car and Sano hastened to catch up, he commented idly, "And try not to rear-end me or anything."


	14. Seeing Red Part 3

The next thing Hajime said to Sano, a few miles later, was, "You can't park there." 

"Wha-" Sano looked around and observed the fire hydrant he hadn't noticed before. "Oh. Well, how long do you think this is going to take?" 

"At least long enough for your friend to catch us up," Hajime replied dryly. "And beyond that, I don't know." 

"Hmm." Sano started to consider whether he could get away with leaving his car in a no-parking zone for an afternoon in an area like this, but eventually based his decision on the expression on Hajime's face. This was the third time now he'd had to start his car today at Hajime's bidding. 

It was a nice old neighborhood, the kind filled with an eclectic blend of housing styles in an equally extensive range of sizes. Hajime's home didn't look extravagantly big, and had a very boring, plain front yard, but the property values around here were probably pretty high, so Sano thought the odds were still on Hajime having some kind of income other than what he made chasing shades. 

The legal spot he found to park in was halfway down to the next street, so Sano was grumbling by the time he got back to the small driveway entirely occupied by Hajime's car. The older man gave a condescending smile and gestured for Sano to follow him across a patio to the side door he'd evidently already unlocked. 

Hajime was perhaps five feet into the house, and Sano, just closing the door behind them, had barely had a chance to start looking around at the kitchen into which they'd walked, before a cat, jumping off the counter nearest the door, wrapped itself around Hajime's legs with a long, screeching meow. Hajime nudged the animal out of the way so he could step further into the room to allow Sano to do the same; then he bent and picked the cat up by the scruff of its neck. It didn't seem to mind; in fact, it immediately climbed onto his arm and ran up to his shoulder, where it began nuzzling his head. 

"I've told you to stay off the kitchen counters," Hajime said to it. 

The cat gave another high-pitched meow. 

"That doesn't excuse you," Hajime replied. 

A second cat appeared in a doorway that apparently led from kitchen into a hallway. This one didn't seem nearly as excited as the other, younger cat, and after a brief meowed greeting sat aloofly looking on. It was mottled brown and grey and black, whereas the smaller one on Hajime's shoulder was black with white paws. 

"I'm sure you did," said Hajime. 

Sano could do nothing but stare. Cats? Really? And one of them of a decidedly kittenish nature? _These_ were the familiars of this harsh, suit-clad, sword-wielding exorcist? 

Hajime looked over at him with a faint smirk. "What were you expecting?" 

Sano didn't worry much that Hajime had been intentionally prying into his head at that moment; his astonishment and skepticism had undoubtedly been plain on his face. He did, however, try his best to suppress the mental image of a sleek rattlesnake with hypnotic yellow eyes that sprang up in response to Hajime's question -- to no avail, if Hajime's faint snort was any indication. 

Just then, the little cat launched itself unexpectedly from Hajime's shoulder across four feet of empty space onto Sano. It didn't fly quite far enough, and scrabbling claws dug into Sano's shoulder as the animal tried to get onto it. With a noise of surprise and pain, he raised his hands to help the cat up and try to keep it from ruining his t-shirt. Once it had its balance, it bumped its little head into his ear and meowed at him. 

"He's bringing a shade here," Hajime answered the cat's question. "I think it may be a ghost, and I want you two to take a look at it." 

The little cat's whiskers tickled Sano's ear, and he couldn't tilt his head far enough away to make it stop. He noticed out of the corner of his eye that the other cat had come into the room and now sat at his feet, looking up at him. "Hey, stop!" Laughter colored his tone despite his best efforts as the little one continued pushing at him. 

Smirking again, Hajime let this go on for a while before stepping forward to the rescue. Lifting the cat off Sano with one hand, he said, "This is Misao." He replaced her on his own shoulder. "And that's Tokio," he added, pointing to the other. She gave a dignified meow. 

"Hi, cats," Sano said with a wave. 

Misao was still looking at Sano curiously, and now said something in shrill cat-talk. 

"Probably not," Hajime replied. "The shade follows him around, so it will catch up with us soon." 

Bending to pet the older cat, Tokio, Sano continued to listen in bemusement to the conversation he could only understand half of. Misao said something excited, to which Tokio replied disdainfully, and then Hajime said, "Tokio, your self-righteousness isn't fooling anyone. Misao, you had some this morning." 

Crawling down Hajime's arm and then dropping to the floor, complaining the entire way, Misao proceeded to jump on Tokio and start wrestling with her rather ineffectually (considering Tokio was at least twice her size). 

Sano stood straight with a laugh, withdrawing his hand from what had become a swift-moving bundle of batting paws and gently biting mouths. He had no idea what to say. 

Hajime gave him a look that said he didn't need to say anything, which gave Sano something to say: "Stay out of my head!" 

"I'm not in your head," Hajime replied mildly. "You're just projecting. Haven't you had _any_ training?" 

The anger abruptly flaring off Sano in response to this clearly stopped the cats' mock battle (which had ranged to the other end of the kitchen) and caught their interest, for they came over to him again -- one eagerly, the other sedately. Misao stopped just in front of Sano's left boot, and, after a couple of heaving, wiggling motions, leaped straight up to dig her claws into his knee and scrabble upward. Sano made a noise of pain at the same moment the kitten let out a similar protest when her stomach evidently came into contact with the spikes at his knees. 

"Explain your pants to Misao," Hajime commanded, turning away toward the refrigerator. 

"My... what?" Sano was helping Misao up onto his shoulder again, though precedent indicated she probably wouldn't remain there long. Recovering, however, he directed his next words at the little cat. "Yeah, my pants have spikes on them. Probably not the best thing to climb. Can you understand me? I'm not a communicator..." 

She gave a chirping mew pretty clearly an affirmative, while at about the same moment Tokio from the floor had something to say as well. 

"Now explain to Tokio what you do," was Hajime's next instruction. He emerged from the fridge with a couple of cans of beer, one of which he non-verbally offered to Sano. 

Accepting the Asahi Dry with surprised gratitude, Sano crouched down to pet Tokio again, setting the can on the floor and opening it absently with his free hand. "I see red," he told the cat. For all he knew cats made some of the best familiars available, it still seemed strange to be talking to someone whose eyes were slitted and head tilted as he scratched her jaw. "I absorb angry shades, and then I always have extra anger left over. Would you stop?" This last was aimed at Misao, who was bumping again, tickling him with her little whiskers once more as she meowed something right into his ear. 

"She wants to know _why_ your pants have spikes," Hajime supplied from where he leaned against a counter, drinking his beer and watching in amusement. 

"Why are my pants important?" Sano wondered, talking half to the cat and half to its human familiar. 

"It's important to her," Hajime shrugged. 

Tokio said something at this point that seemed to irritate Misao again, for once more the kitten flung herself off the shoulder she'd made her seat and attacked the older cat. Sano took up his beer, stood straight, and watched Tokio bat Misao around the kitchen. It might not have been what he'd expected, but this was really funny. With familiars like these, you'd probably never get lonely. Of course, their effectiveness at recognizing ghosts had yet to be seen. 

"Tokio's been with me for four years now," Hajime said, whether in response to Sano's unspoken thoughts, or just because he felt the right moment to explain this, Sano couldn't guess. "Her senses are well developed. She's never encountered a ghost before, as far as I know, but I have no doubt she'll be able to tell the difference." 

"And Misao?" 

Hajime smirked. "She's learning." 

Misao clearly realized she'd just been undervalued, for she flung herself at Hajime's ankle, little claws blazing. Sano laughed as Hajime bent to pick her up again and the cat twisted and clawed her way around his hand onto his arm and up to his shoulder. Hajime's suit looked nice at a glance, as had the one he'd worn when they'd first met in December, but now Sano bet that a closer inspection would prove them, and probably any other piece of clothing in his wardrobe, full of little claw-pricks and pulled threads. 

Misao began batting at Hajime's ear, which action he placidly ignored. "Let's go sit down." 

He led Sano into a small front room somewhat sparsely furnished in a mixture of American and Japanese styles. Sano had already guessed the man had either moved here from Japan or at least come from a more strongly Japanese background in America than Sano had, but thought this wasn't the moment to ask. They sat on the sofa -- leather; must have been expensive -- and set their drinks on coasters on a chabudai used here as a coffee table. The cats accompanied them, Misao having at some point, unseen by Sano, abandoned Hajime's shoulder again; and now the little one leaped onto the table, skidded right across its smooth surface, and fell off the other side. 

Sano was beside himself with laughter at this sight, Tokio made some disdainful remark from where she sat primly by Hajime's leg, Hajime reminded Misao she wasn't allowed on the coffee table either, and Misao herself couldn't seem able to decide whom to assault first. She leaped at Tokio, who neatly dodged her and jumped up onto the sofa; she dove for Sano's feet, but was thwarted by his boots; and finally she went for Hajime's ankles again, since above the tops of his shiny businessman shoes he was unprotected except by cloth. And at about this point Sano's laughter faded and he started to lose track of the situation when he felt the shade -- ghost? -- once again drawing near. 

The cats sensed it not long after he did. Tokio jumped down from where she'd apparently been waffling over whether or not to sit on Hajime's lap, and Misao abandoned Hajime's legs with a perky swiveling of head and pricking of ears. They watched the opposite wall with the taut attention they might have given the sound of a skittering mouse, and Sano half expected them to leap forward to the attack the moment the shade appeared. He only wished it were something as innocuous as a mouse...


	15. Seeing Red Part 4

It was definitely a ghost. So Tokio stated after sitting, placid but for the twitching end of her tail, staring up at the thing as it moved gently across the small living room. 

Definitely a ghost, added Misao, who'd been galloping around beneath and occasionally rising onto hind feet. And to the counterance of anyone's suspicions that she hadn't sensed this herself but just piggybacked off Tokio's pronouncement, she added that it was a ghost, but covered in shade. 

Hajime nodded, thinking this an apt description. And a ghost covered in shade would probably prove somewhat difficult to deal with. 

Sano had been laughing at Misao's antics, but simultaneously growing more and more tense as the cats examined the glowing form. At Hajime's nod he demanded impatiently, "Well?" 

"Oh, yes," Hajime said as if he'd just remembered, "you can't understand them." He was already developing a theory, though, about Sano the casual necrovisual that claimed not to be a communicator but was comprehensible to familiars and didn't like to have his magical senses clouded... 

When Sano's usual irritation appeared, Tokio remarked that it was the same as the energy surrounding the ghost. 

Hajime replied to her instead of to Sano, just to see if Sano would become more angry. "Yes, he's been absorbing it trying to deal with this, but it hasn't been working." 

Tokio believed this no wonder, because... but Hajime couldn't catch the rest of her statement as Sano interrupted: 

"Stop having conversations I can't fucking understand and tell me what they think!" 

Chuckling at the vehemence of the command, Hajime obeyed, briefly. "It's definitely a ghost." 

Sano turned brown eyes beneath knitted brows toward the glowing shape, which still circled him aimlessly, and commented (not for the first time that day), "Shit." 

Misao complained that she couldn't hear anything from the ghost, and wondered why it didn't talk. Which was a good question. 

Taking the last sip of beer from the can and replacing the latter on the table, Hajime stood and began to follow the ghost's slow progress back and forth through the room. Up close, it felt slightly different, and he concentrated on that difference, trying to describe it to himself. Finally he decided that the angry shade energy swathing the ghost and the ghost itself had each a distinct sense about them; and one, in wrapping the other so thoroughly, masked it to the point where the ghost could only be detected through the anger at close proximity. 

The anger gave him a headache at that proximity, however, so he finally stepped back. How had Sano lived with this thing for three weeks? Not to mention absorbing all the anger off it five times? 

"Well?" the young man demanded again. 

Hajime continued pensively watching the object of their discussion. "Now that we know it's a ghost," he finally said, "we need to find some way to communicate with it. But the shade energy is probably going to get in the way." 

"How can someone be a ghost _and_ a shade?" Sano was clearly about to elaborate on his confusion, but evidently couldn't quite articulate it and decided not to try. 

Hajime understood him, though: shades were merely leftover strong emotion combined with the energy of death, and, since they were created at the moment of death, were limited to a finite amount. Once that moment of death had ended, no more death force remained to create a shade out of an emotion... so even if the ghost was angry, how did that anger continually translate into a shade? Or did the very presence of a ghost generate an ongoing death energy? 

But with so little information documented about ghosts, this made only one of a thousand questions that might be answered if they could just talk to the thing. 

Hajime was primarily only familiar with the basic techniques of communication magic: enough to keep his own thoughts in check, access the open surface level of others', and so on. Though he'd picked up a minor skill or two here and there, he'd never bothered with distance telepathy or brainwashing or skimming power from memories or the like, mostly because he'd never been interested enough in what went on in other people's heads. He wasn't sure to what extent _any_ level of talent or practice in communication would help with the undead, and necromancy was a skill he'd never had occasion to develop. But he might as well make the attempt. 

Resuming his seat on the sofa, he focused on the ghost even more pointedly than before, working to order his thoughts into a direct channel toward it. Unfortunately, he couldn't even _begin_ to sense a mind in there, nor any thoughts at all analogous with his own. Whether this was due to the shade energy blocking him, or because his powers of communication simply didn't work on a ghost, he couldn't tell. So he resorted to the next best thing, or at least the only thing he could think to try next, which was his line of sight: he simply directed his outgoing message at the figure on a physical basis. 

Beside him, Sano shifted restlessly, clearly aware Hajime was up to something but restraining himself (for the moment) from demanding to know what. At Hajime's outgoing thought (merely a greeting and the idea that he wanted to communicate), he stiffened a little; the cats also reacted, looking over at their human somewhat accusingly. Misao wondered what he was trying to do, Tokio remarked that she didn't think anything was likely to reach the ghost, and Sano demanded, "What was that?" The ghost, however, as Tokio had predicted, didn't even seem to receive the thought, let alone respond. 

"I'm trying to get through to him," Hajime explained, frowning. Communicative magic probably wouldn't work, which meant they might have to do the séance thing, and he didn't think he had any candles. 

"Maybe if you got up close..." Sano suggested. 

Hajime nodded and rose from the sofa once more. He didn't approach the ghost again quite yet, but instead went into the kitchen to retrieve the sword he'd set down on the counter when they'd entered the house. He didn't plan on getting any nearer to that thing than he had to until after dealing with at least some of the angry shade. 

Sano made no comment when Hajime returned, nor did he have anything to say as the exorcist drew the sword and advanced on the ghost -- but Hajime got an impression from him that he doubted this would work any better than it had before. Hajime rather thought so too, but it had to be attempted. 

As previously, the angry energy, though volatile, was worrisomely easy to defeat; Hajime almost thought he could even have done it without the sword. Having replaced the latter in its sheath and set it aside, he then returned to the now-invisible ghost and raised a hand into the space it occupied. 

He could definitely sense its presence, but still no trace of a comprehensible mind. He tried first to send another thought at it, then to open himself up to any message the ghost might be trying to broadcast; but the former had no discernible effect and the latter only gave him an instant headache boost. 

"It never all quite leaves," he muttered. He couldn't see any remaining shade energy, but when he opened himself as he just had, he felt as if he were being battered by a hot, heavy wind. 

Sano stood. "Let me see if I can get the rest of it." Hajime nodded; a combination of techniques might be exactly what they needed. 

The only time the ghost seemed to react to anything was when Sano moved. Hajime had been slowly pacing the room in order to keep right next to it as it drifted, but when Sano approached, the thing finally held still. Could it sense that Sano wanted it to? Perhaps, despite claiming not to be a communicator, Sano might have a better chance than Hajime at talking to it. 

Now he'd reached up so his hand hovered in the air near Hajime's, and his face had taken on an expression of angry concentration. Shades had a certain resonance that varied from one to the next, and people that absorbed shade energy did so by matching that wavelength precisely. It was about the only field where a talent for feeling a particular emotion became a trade skill. And it seemed Sano was particularly good at getting angry -- either that or he'd been around this specific spirit so much that it only took him a moment to attune to it and draw off the last remaining shade energy into himself. 

But it wasn't the last. Or at least the action didn't help. Continued attempts at communicating with the ghost, either giving or receiving ideas, met with the same failure as before, and that sense of being attacked (and the near-migraine that went with it) did not diminish. Hajime still couldn't begin to sense a consciousness anywhere in there, and not knowing whether or not he _should_ be able to only complicated things. 

So did Sano's increasing anger. The young man hadn't moved from where he stood facing Hajime (across the ghost, as it were) with his hand in the air, but he'd closed his eyes and was looking -- and feeling -- more and more angry. The sense of its growing radiation interfered somewhat with Hajime's concentration on something that wasn't working anyway; so finally Hajime put his own raised hand over the younger man's, which had by now clenched into a fist, and pushed it out of the ghost's space. 

"This isn't working," he said quietly. 

Sano's eyes started open, the irate gleam in them surprisingly hot and strong. It occurred to Hajime, looking into what seemed at the moment an inferno of unfathomable depth, that Sano might be dangerous if he absorbed too much anger; not that it was likely to be anything Hajime couldn't handle, but they must remember to keep the lethal weapons out of Sano's reach at such moments. 

Sano jerked away from Hajime and the ghost, turning abruptly to stalk back over to the sofa and throw himself down. "Damn right it's not," he growled. "You were right: there's just no end to the fucking stuff." 

Hajime also stood back, out of the way of the headache-inducing energy, letting his mental shields rise back into place, and nodded again. It looked like they really would have to try silly séance business, candles and all, and it was _so_ hard to get cats to sit still for things like that, and he honestly didn't think it would work any better than what they'd already done -- though, once again, the attempt had to be made. 

He glanced at his watch. It was getting to be mid-afternoon already, somehow, and they'd made no progress except to confirm that the thing was, in fact, a ghost. If the lack of results continued and Sano got much angrier, he might decide to take his ghost elsewhere. And though not exactly a paying customer (yet... though Hajime sensed 'ever' might be a better term), he'd presented the exorcist with a unique opportunity Hajime didn't want to lose. He _would_ talk to this ghost, no matter what it took. Which meant he needed to try to keep Sano happy. 

"This might take a while," he said. "How do you feel about ordering Chinese?"


	16. Seeing Red Part 5

Sano had always believed himself persistent, but Hajime was absolutely indefatigable. They had tried _everything_: they'd used every communicative technique Hajime knew, and looked up others online; they'd performed various types of séance -- most of these also gleaned off websites, many of dubious authenticity; Hajime had attempted to get the cats to make some sort of mental connection with the ghost so he could talk through them; and they'd eventually just tried to exorcize the thing rather than communicate with it, which Sano could see annoyed and dismayed Hajime, who wanted very much to get information from the ghost. 

This last negated any guilt Sano might have been feeling about essentially asking the exorcist to work for free: Hajime was clearly more than a little eager to interact with the ghost, and didn't care whether he got anything else out of the situation. This was extremely fortunate, since Sano, who between tuition and rent was always low on funds, didn't know how much longer he could put up with this angering distraction in his life, but also didn't know how else he might get rid of it. 

Not that any efforts toward dealing with the ghost had paid off so far. Nothing had seemed even the least bit effective, and Hajime's thin lips had set into a tighter and tighter line as afternoon turned into evening and then night, until he appeared almost as frustrated as Sano was. The two of them had taken to bickering over every little thing, and violence was only barely averted on a number of occasions. Even the cats had become increasingly irritable, and at one point Misao bit Sano's hand so hard it drew significant blood. 

Sano had firmly vetoed the suggestion that they order Chinese (since he worked at a Chinese restaurant and already suffered nightmares about never being able to eat anything else for the rest of his life), so they'd ordered pizza instead and argued heatedly about toppings. Sano had been forced to give in on that score when reminded that Hajime was paying. Then they'd eaten pizza and drunk beer as if they were hanging out having fun instead of futilely and increasingly frustratingly trying to get into contact with a ghost they could very plainly sense in their immediate presence but couldn't talk to no matter what they tried. 

At one point Sano had suggested they attempt inducing possession, and volunteered himself for the process when Hajime evinced obvious distaste for the idea. However, even once Hajime had been reluctantly convinced this was worth giving a try, yet again it hadn't worked. Sano had been disappointed -- he would have said 'secretly disappointed' if he hadn't been in the same room as a communicator -- not solely because it was another blocked avenue to getting rid of or at least talking to the ghost, but because he thought it would be pretty cool to be able to say later that he'd been possessed. Even if the outcome might have been unpleasant, it would have been an interesting and unique experience. 

It was the damn shade that had unendingly gotten in the way. There was always more of the stuff no matter how much Hajime diffused or Sano absorbed; and no matter how quickly they dealt with it, they couldn't seem to cause even a momentary break in the flow to allow them through to the ghost beyond. He supposed it wasn't a bad method of protection, and reflected further that if _he_ were undead, he would probably be wreathed in the same impenetrable anger. 

The annoyance he felt at the circumstance must have caused him to project this last thought, for Hajime had remarked in response, "Undoubtedly." 

Eventually, frustrated, aggravated, worn ragged on a magical level, they'd given up -- at least on dealing with the ghost under their own power. To Sano, who in calling Hajime in the first place had already admitted this defeat, it hadn't been as annoying a concession as it obviously was to Hajime. But the exorcist had been the one to suggest the alternative they probably should have had in mind all along: taking the ghost to Aoshi. The latter was a skilled medium; if anyone could talk to this damned thing, it was he. 

Unfortunately, Aoshi was unavailable on weekends (and Sano had to work on Sunday in any case), which meant another day of trying to restrain the shade from hovering where other people might unknowingly walk through it and take ill effects from the invisible anger. It was just such a fucking pain. 

But now, finally, Monday morning, he'd risen earlier than he generally ever wanted to during Spring Break, and headed toward Forest of Four to meet Hajime there and hope Aoshi had a free moment sometime before lunch. Well, more than a moment: if Aoshi could communicate with the ghost, he and Hajime both were sure to sit there asking it all kinds of questions probably for hours on end. Sano was already bracing himself for a lengthy period of boredom, since, although he believed it would be interesting enough at first, he also _knew_ those two necrovisua nerds would drag it out far past the point of easy endurance. He only hoped they wouldn't forget about him and his predicament in the process and fail to ask the ghost the all-important question of what they needed to do to get rid of it. 

Aoshi's shop was never terribly busy, and when the little parking lot began to fill up it was usually mostly for the market next door. Sano didn't see Hajime's car yet, though, so he loitered around outside. Since this destination was a negligible distance from his apartment, he'd come on foot, and therefore hadn't outdistanced the ghost. It maintained its customary slow, elliptical orbit as he stood on the curb and looked idly around. 

A couple of guys hanging out pointlessly in front of the used CD store on the far side of the market kept glancing over at him, and some market shoppers stared likewise as they emerged with full bags. He wondered if he seemed angrier than usual, or if it was just that he'd used blue gel in his hair today. 

Someone actually here to shop Forest of Four gave a startled look to the ghost as she emerged from her car, then a pitying one to Sano; she probably thought he was here for advice on how to deal with a red shade and politely waiting for his appointment time outside where it wouldn't disturb the business. He was tempted to tell her, as she passed, that he was perfectly capable of dealing with red shades all on his own, thank you very much, but just then Hajime pulled up. 

Glad at the prospect of taking out some of his anger on a relatively willing victim, Sano went to meet him at his car. Hajime's yellow eyes, on stepping from that vehicle, were not on Sano but on the ghost, and he looked a little surprised. "How long have you been waiting?" 

"Since nine." Sano stuck his chin out and did not add, _"You know, the time you said to meet you?" _ Hajime probably took Sano for the unreliable type just out of his teens that was never on time for anything, and therefore hadn't hurried to get here. Greatly disliking that sort of assumption, Sano was pleased he'd come on foot and already had the ghost with him in order to give the impression of having been here a while. 

Unfortunately, Hajime seemed to pick up on this, and, with a glance around the parking lot, which of course did not contain Sano's vehicle, smirked faintly and gestured they should go inside. Hajime's car, which reminded Sano a little of gangster cars in movies, was evidently new and well-enough-favored to merit locking and arming, which made Sano faintly jealous as they headed into the store. 

"Good morning, Mr. Saitou!" The girl at the counter sounded surprised, but no less cheerful for that. They were always cheerful in here -- all of them except Aoshi, who seemed to have made it his goal to weigh a personal balance against the combined peppiness of his entire staff. 

"We need to see Aoshi as soon as possible," Hajime told the girl as they drew up to the counter. 

Sano, had he been behind that counter, would have reacted to the dictatorial tone with annoyance; all the girl did, however, was widen her eyes a bit as she looked past them both. "Is that--" 

"It's a ghost," Hajime declared, clearly and perhaps overloudly. 

"Really?" the girl breathed. Sano finally remembered her name now: Omasu, who'd turned him down when he'd asked her out the very first time he'd come in here. "An actual ghost?" 

Hajime nodded. "I assume Aoshi will be interested." 

"I just bet he will!" agreed Omasu in excitement. She was already pulling up the hinged counter segment and emerging. "Let me run talk to him!" 

While she carried out her stated intention, Sano realized with an odd feeling why Hajime had practically announced to the entire store that a real ghost accompanied them. There were only two other visitors at the moment, and although one (the sympathetic woman from outside) had been browsing the books on crystal healing and the other the jewelry, it appeared that by some chance they were _both_ necrovisual. And the moment Omasu was gone, they converged on Hajime without even any polite pretense, demanding to know about the ghost. 

Admittedly Hajime handled it very well, never dropping a hint that they'd brought the ghost here because they couldn't even begin to communicate with it or, almost, affect it in any way. He made it seem, instead, without actually saying so, that he was doing Aoshi a favor by giving him the opportunity to interact with an actual ghost. He didn't mention Sano at all. 

Of course this was only natural; an exorcist's reputation could be significantly boosted by a situation like this, and Hajime would be an idiot not to take advantage of it. Logically Sano didn't blame him, and also reminded himself that Hajime was helping him out for free when he might have been working on a paying job -- but it annoyed him no less for that. 

Worse, it wasn't even _Sano_ Hajime was taking advantage of here, but, rather, the ghost haunting him. Sano was accessory to the actual person Hajime was using to enhance his professional reputation. What the two eager necrovisuals made of the angry young man emitting the same energy that surrounded the purported ghost, Sano couldn't guess. Maybe he was lucky and they didn't see red. In any case, taking cue from Hajime, they largely ignored him. 

Hajime ended up giving each of them a business card, and Sano ended up giving each of them a surreptitious gesture with a particular finger. Hajime seemed entertained by this, and was clearly restraining a chuckle as Omasu came hurrying back to them with the news that Aoshi had cleared his schedule for the entire morning in order to see them. 

Even as they headed for the office in back, they could hear her starting to make calls to cancel all of her employer's existing appointments. These probably amounted to no more than two, knowing Aoshi, but even so Sano felt a little bad about displacing them. Not nearly as bad as he would have if he hadn't been haunted by a ghost he couldn't get rid of and an exorcist that clearly regarded said ghost with far more interest than he did Sano. It would be nice to get this all dealt with.


	17. Seeing Red Part 6

When they entered Aoshi's office, the medium was in the act of moving chairs from before and behind his desk into positions facing the center of the room. His quick, vigorous motions declared what his face, morose as usual, could not: that he was excited and interested by the promise of a ghost. Hajime couldn't help considering that Aoshi would be extremely, possibly _dangerously_ disappointed if for some reason the ghost turned out to be something less than he expected or if by any chance he couldn't communicate with it; and that he was already so worked up -- and, indeed, that the cashier girl had run back so enthusiastically to talk to him -- on nothing more than Hajime's statement showed satisfactorily how much the exorcist's word was worth around here. 

Semi-darkness always hovered in this room, whether to create the atmosphere favored by its gloomy occupant or for legitimate magical purposes Hajime had never known or cared; but there also always seemed to be an unearthly gleam to Aoshi's eyes even in the shadows. Today it was brighter than usual as he looked up at them. "Whose spirit is it?" he asked -- which from him was a fairly typical greeting, since he rarely bothered with polite, meaningless phrases such as 'Hello' or 'Have a seat.' 

"We don't know," Hajime replied, having a seat. He tilted his head toward the young man entering behind him. "It's haunting Sano." 

As Aoshi's eyes shifted to Sano, the latter commented with just a touch of bitterness, "Oh, you want _me_ to tell him?" He'd been annoyed outside about Hajime ignoring him and playing up the ghost to the other customers, but Hajime believed he'd also understood, which explained why he wasn't flaring as brightly as he could be right about now. By suggesting Sano explain the situation to Aoshi, Hajime hoped to reassure the young man a little that he and his predicament weren't forgotten. 

Sano didn't get the chance to explain, however, nor was he likely to think himself unforgotten. For at that moment the ghost moved into the office after him, through the door they'd closed behind them, and procured every last bit of Aoshi's attention. 

The pale glow of the shade contrasted enough with the shadowy room actually to illuminate objects that had previously been close to invisible. It was an uncanny light, and all the more eerie to Hajime for the thought that the other two living humans in the room saw it as red, and therefore, undoubtedly, the entire office as tinted by that color (and that many other living humans, had they been present, wouldn't have been able to see it at all). It made Aoshi's eyes glow an even brighter blue, but Hajime supposed that, from Sano's perspective, they must have been purple or even entirely red. 

The medium began to circle the ghost like a prowling panther, examining it from all sides meticulously up and down; and whether aware of this scrutiny and deliberately permitting it or for some totally unrelated reason, the ghost held still. Finally Aoshi asked in a half whisper, "Who are you?" It seemed intended as a rhetorical question, as he didn't wait for an answer; evidently he could already perceive the difficulty with the shade energy. 

"We've tried everything we could think of," Sano put in at this point; it was clear by his expression, where he'd seated himself in the chair next to Hajime's, that he couldn't be sure whether or not Aoshi would even hear him. He went on anyway. "We haven't been able to get through to him. There's just too much shade in the way." 

Aoshi might indeed not have heard him, for all the reaction he gave. He'd gone perfectly still, staring unblinkingly at the ghost now, and looked as if he might remain that way for some time. Hajime caught Sano's eye and shrugged; Sano, who'd been scowling, relaxed a little and actually smiled. Hajime had to smile faintly too when he caught from Sano the projected thought (deliberately this time, he believed), _Should've seen this coming_. Which was certainly true. 

What he also should have seen coming was Aoshi, when he finally moved, beginning to go through the motions Hajime and Sano had exhausted the day before yesterday. He doubted it would take Aoshi nearly as long to realize the futility of standard communication or even standard necromantic efforts, but for the moment he sat back in the uncomfortable chair and watched only idly. Beside him, Sano had extracted from a spike-edged pocket a cheap pre-paid phone and begun texting someone. 

Just to see if he still remembered how to do it, Hajime reached out mentally to read the departing message. Apparently Sano was responding with an apologetic negative to a request that he come in to work today, but Hajime couldn't catch the exact wording -- probably for the best, as he abhorred textspeak. 

If Aoshi had bothered to listen to what they had to say about the ghost instead of completely shutting them out and wading in on his own, he could have skipped the steps he was working his way through now; but in all probability he would have made the attempt anyway, believing communicator-turned-exorcist Hajime and Sano, whatever Sano might be, weren't as skilled at contacting the dead as he was -- a natural enough assumption. 

In any case, while Aoshi tried various methods of talking to the ghost, sometimes with verbal questions but more often in complete silence, Hajime somewhat absently continued to follow Sano's text conversation. There came a reiteration of the work request and the information that the other maintenance guy had called in sick -- apparently X, Y, and Z weren't going to get done, and this was some sort of disaster -- followed by a firmer, less apologetic refusal from Sano and his statement that he didn't want any extra hours this week since he had a lot to do. 

When Hajime caught an incoming message in reply wondering whether this week wasn't Sano's Spring Break, he was beginning to get a feel for the exact words in addition to the general meaning -- but just then Sano glanced abruptly over at him with a suspicious expression, and Hajime withdrew his mental nets. Interesting that Sano could sense what he was doing when he claimed seeing and absorbing angry shade energy as the extent of his magical abilities. Hajime turned his full attention back to Aoshi. 

It took fifteen or twenty minutes for the medium to determine his attempts weren't going to work; but, despite this being quite a decent time in comparison to the hours Hajime and Sano had spent at similar pursuits on Saturday, Sano was by then shifting restlessly in his chair from one bored-looking position to another, and slowly, gradually, growing angrier. Why angrier? Why would Sano be absorbing the shade at this point? It wasn't on a large enough scale to be of any use to Aoshi, and otherwise it just seemed stupid. 

But Hajime didn't have a chance to ask or otherwise figure it out, for Aoshi at last appeared to have remembered there were living people in the room besides himself. He'd turned toward where they sat, and, though the engrossed, fascinated gleam hadn't left his eyes, the latter did seem a little more present now. "You've never once been able to communicate with him?" he asked abruptly. It was his usual saturnine tone, but for some reason he spoke Japanese; and _this_ was no ambivalent 'him,' but a distinctly masculine pronoun. 

"That's right," Hajime confirmed in the same language, and reiterated Sano's earlier statement about the shade energy getting in the way. 

Sano had sat up straight, and watched Aoshi with interest now. The medium's face, lit oddly by the single lamp on the desk and the softer, less pleasant glow of the shade, was impassive as he turned away from the other humans again and regarded the ghost once more. He'd been standing right beside it this entire time, and Hajime wondered at his fortitude. That Aoshi was immune to most normal emotions Hajime had long facetiously speculated, so perhaps the shade didn't affect him as it would normal people, but surely he must at least be getting a headache over there. 

Now Aoshi began searching for something on one of the shelves full of arcane miscellany that lined the office walls. Hajime definitely sensed an eyes-rolling sort of _Finally!_ from Sano, and had to agree; whatever Aoshi sought would undoubtedly be part of a more pointed and expert attempt at ghostly communication, which was, after all, the reason they'd come. 

The next thing Hajime picked up from the young man to his left -- _was_ Sano deliberately projecting, or really that bad at guarding his thoughts? -- was an image of the three of them lit by flickering candle-flame sitting cross-legged on the floor around an intricate set of chalked lines, holding hands, eyes closed, while Aoshi chanted dramatic nonsense. Hajime snorted, and saw Sano's cheeks twitch against a repressed grin. Clearly he _had_ intended Hajime to see that, and Hajime felt grudgingly impressed: a lot of legitimate communicators couldn't send ideas that sharply visualized. 

The object Aoshi eventually located and withdrew from an unnecessarily ornate wooden box on one of the shelves was small enough to be mostly hidden by his hand and wrist as he turned back toward the ghost. Even when he made a couple of quick motions through the space the ghost occupied -- a diagonal slash followed by a quick stab in the same spot -- Hajime couldn't see exactly what it might be. However, Hajime and Sano were instantly on their feet in the wake of Aoshi's movement, and had both taken a step closer with quick indrawn breaths. 

As if whatever Aoshi held had cut a fissure right into the shade energy surrounding the ghost and laid the latter bare along that narrow line, Hajime could suddenly see hints of a human neck and collarbone and shoulder, glowing and translucent, in the midst of the shade. He wondered if it was the same grey-white hue to Sano's eyes; if so, it must be a striking contrast against the red. 

Aoshi's inward thrust put his hand and the item it clutched inside the constricting fissure, which then closed around the medium's wrist; it seemed clear he'd made it in; he'd managed to penetrate the shade that had so completely defied Hajime and Sano. The latter two had gone still after leaving their chairs, and only stared as Aoshi's eyes fluttered closed and his entire body drew up with a deep breath and stiffened into total motionlessness. 

Long, tense seconds dragged into one minute, then continued on toward two. Sano was shifting impatiently again, even more agitated now than before, while Hajime attempted to discern what Aoshi held. The shade glow and the darkness of the room combined to make this nearly impossible, but it seemed about the size of a pen. 

To anyone not necrovisual this would have looked absurd: Aoshi standing there with one hand raised, appearing to be straining to keep what he held in place in the air; Hajime and Sano also standing, staring at him wordlessly; the atmosphere rigid, expectant. Hajime thought Aoshi's face was paling somewhat with effort, thought he saw the medium's frame tremble slightly, and therefore believed himself prepared for what would happen next. 

When the break came, when Aoshi shuddered and abruptly jerked his hand back -- indeed, jerked his entire body back all at once as if tearing away from some painful adhesion, drawing in another deep, unsteady breath -- Hajime stepped quickly forward to support him. And what Hajime _hadn't_ been prepared for was Aoshi to collapse backward into his arms, eyes rolling up under closing lids, a completely dead weight.


	18. Seeing Red Part 7

Sano knew Aoshi's dramatic tendencies -- indeed, had more than once been required to restrain a grin of mockery or a roll of eyes in the man's presence -- but, if Hajime's sudden half stagger and evidently somewhat irritated attempt at regaining his balance under Aoshi's collapsed frame meant anything, this was the real deal. It interested Sano, who had never seen anyone faint before. 

He'd been restraining the ghost ever since he'd entered the room, holding it still in order to let Aoshi examine it without having to follow its drifting circle around Sano, but now he released it in favor of moving to help Hajime manhandle Aoshi into a chair. The medium didn't actually weigh very much, for a guy just under six feet tall, and it was easier than he'd expected to get him into the seat -- much more comfortable than the other two in the room -- beside the desk. Hajime tilted the chair backward, and adjusted the knobs underneath to make it stay that way, so Aoshi would remain where they'd set him, then looked around. 

"It's so damn dark in here," he grumbled. "He must at least have some candles somewhere." 

Sano gave a grimace indicating no ideas, glancing at the window that would have let in some additional light if it hadn't been painted over in black and half-obscured by a bookshelf. When he turned back, he found Hajime taking Aoshi's pulse. 

"Should we get someone?" asked Sano uncertainly. "Or call 911, or..." 

Hajime frowned. "I'm not sure what we'd tell the 911 operator. At least his pulse is normal. Look in that fridge and see if he has any water." 

Sano had visited this office a number of times, seated in one of the hard chairs in front of the desk while Aoshi, in the big leather one behind it, questioned him impassively about recent shade-related activity and eventually fetched and counted out the pills Sano needed from a plastic container he kept in a locked cabinet to the left of his desk. But he'd never taken much notice of the small refrigerator beneath the shelves on the opposite side. And he'd certainly never expected to see the eccentric medium lying pale and prostrate in that same big leather chair. 

Now, trying to disregard Hajime's dictatorial tone, he did as he was told. No water was to be found in the fridge, only a salad in Tupperware, seven different flavors of coffee creamer, and a couple of vials Sano probably didn't want to know the contents of; however, he caught sight of the coffeemaker on a shelf (this one almost more of a countertop in an alcove) above the fridge. The device seemed to have a water line in, and a group of upside-down mugs stood beside it. One of these, full of lukewarm liquid, he handed to Hajime in short order. 

As Hajime flicked water in Aoshi's face, he issued his next command: "Make some coffee too, if you can figure the machine out; he'll probably need it when he wakes up." 

"Or," Sano replied crossly, "he'll get annoyed that we're messing with his stuff." 

"How often have you seen him in here without a cup of coffee?" countered Hajime. 

Sano would have liked to make an angry retort, but unfortunately the answer to Hajime's question was 'practically never,' so argument would be futile. Wanting to let out _some_ anger, though, as he turned he demanded, "And what do you mean, if I can figure out the machine? How hard do you think it is to push buttons on a coffeemaker?" 

"For you, or for the average single-celled organism?" 

"You know what? Fuck you." He'd expected an insult like that, however -- well, technically, he'd expected something less funny -- and it was weird to feel so angry, yet simultaneously relieved and satisfied... and disconcerting to consider this jerk kinda nice to have around, what with his willingness to be offensive and irritating at the drop of a hat, and his sexy voice... 

Hajime chuckled quietly, then went silent as Aoshi stirred. From Sano's angle it was difficult to tell, but he thought Aoshi's eyes drifted open and his breath came out in a faint sigh. Sano hastened to finish dealing with the coffee package and filter and get the machine going, and, to the sound of its quiet hiss as the brewing cycle started, circumnavigated the big chair to see what exactly was going on. 

Aoshi didn't appear to be processing anything before him, though he had indeed opened his eyes, and Sano was in time to see Hajime grip his shoulder and give him a shake. Slowly a sort of fog seemed to lift from the medium's gaze, into which the customary glint returned as he focused more and more coherently on the two men in front of him. "Oh," he finally said. Then he struggled to sit up straight in his chair, and frowned slightly at the odd angle it was set to. He reached down to readjust the knobs Hajime had changed, saying nothing for several seconds, until he'd fixed his seat. 

Next he looked around, still a little vague. His eyes fell on the active coffeemaker and seemed to stick there for several seconds as if in confusion as to why coffee was brewing when he hadn't initiated that process. Then he shook himself slightly, nodded, and turned back. 

"You OK?" Sano wondered. 

Aoshi nodded again. "I believe I am." And like the last few things he'd said before passing out, this brief phrase was for some reason in Japanese. 

Hajime prodded Sano in the ribs suddenly, and when Sano looked in his direction he found him gesturing for movement. Realizing he probably meant it was a good idea at this point to stop towering over the seated Aoshi and resume their own chairs on the other side of the desk, annoyed at Hajime's manner of expressing the suggestion but thinking it best to comply, he stuck out his tongue and did so. 

Having turned the wooden chairs to face Aoshi and sat down again, they watched him draw close to the desk as if to use it for support against the weariness that was now evident in his face and movements. Then Aoshi fixed his eyes on Sano and said, "This was the shade you contacted me about, correct? The one that collects again even after you've absorbed it all?" 

Sano nodded. 

The quiet, dour gaze moved up and down Sano analytically, undoubtedly taking in the angry aura that lingered around him after his latest irritation at Hajime's behavior. "It's _vicious_ shade energy," Aoshi remarked at last. 

"Tell me about it," Sano muttered. 

"Actually, tell us about the ghost," Hajime corrected. "Were you able to talk to it?" 

Aoshi shook his head. "I was only able to get general impressions from him." 

"So he is a guy, then," said Sano. 

When Aoshi nodded, Hajime put in, "And of Japanese descent, I assume." 

"Yes. How--" Aoshi paused, his brows twitching briefly inward. Sano got the feeling he was only just realizing he'd made an unexplained language switch some time ago and the other two had cooperated without protest. "Yes," he finally went on, now in English again. "I would tentatively guess half Japanese, half American, born and raised in the States in a Japanese-style home, possibly here in this very Asian district." 

"Sounds like me," Sano mused. 

"I couldn't sense much more about him than that. Even that was a vague impression I might be mistaken about." 

"It seems like a fairly specific impression to me," Hajime contradicted. "Why that particular information?" 

"I am a Japanese immigrant. It's easier to sense how you're similar to a ghost than areas in which you're totally different from him." 

Hajime appeared a little suspicious as he remarked, "You say that as if you've met other ghosts." 

"This is the second I've encountered," Aoshi replied. 

Though Hajime sat back without another word, Sano couldn't help thinking somewhat complacently that _that_ news must be annoying the hell out of him; he'd thought he'd found a ghost before Aoshi had, and here Aoshi had been ahead of him all along and was one up on him now. 

The coffeemaker had gradually stopped its gurgling, and Aoshi reached for the full mug in a movement so automatic he almost seemed unaware of what he was doing. Once he had the coffee on the desk in front of him, however, he definitively noticed it; and there followed a long process of selecting a creamer from the fridge and stirring it into the dark liquid, carried out in complete silence, that was amusing and frustrating to watch. 

Next he unlocked the cabinet to his left and withdrew, rather than some magical pill or powder as Sano had seen him do before, just a bottle of standard painkillers. Sano knew the brand, which was targeted at migraine sufferers and caffeinated, and raised his brows at the amount of the latter chemical Aoshi planned to ingest. 

After swallowing three of the pills and beginning to sip what must still be quite hot coffee, Aoshi finally continued in a dark tone. "I wasn't able to sense more about him because I couldn't maintain the connection through that intense shade energy -- and also because he was projecting his anchor so strongly it overrode nearly everything else." 

"Anchor?" Sano echoed, unfamiliar with the term in this context. 

At the same moment Hajime wondered, "Oh? What is it?" 

Aoshi sighed faintly. "It's the same anchor as it was for the last ghost I encountered," he answered Hajime rather than Sano. "And, as far as I've read, for a majority of ghosts throughout human history. A woman, of course."


	19. Seeing Red Part 8

Aoshi's theatrical announcement that a woman anchored the ghost to the living world failed to make much of an impression on Hajime. And perhaps Aoshi was a little disappointed that he didn't gasp and draw back, wide-eyed, in response, but when Hajime instead asked, "What does she look like?" he answered calmly enough: 

"A beautiful Japanese woman. It was more a general sense than a visual. I believe she's in her mid-twenties. She may be a mother. He wants to go to her, and it's clear he won't be free until he does." 

"Why doesn't he just do it, then?" wondered Sano in frustration. "Where do _I_ come in?" 

"She probably can't see ghosts," Hajime reminded him. "Maybe you were the first person he ran into who could tell he was there." Though he had to think there was more to it than that. 

Sano apparently did too, for he glanced at the ghost with a pensive scowl. Interestingly, it had started drifting around the young man again as soon as Aoshi fainted; Hajime wondered what had stilled it before. 

Finally Sano said, "But if he's so mad at this woman, why doesn't he go do the usual thing? Give her headaches and make her pissed at the whole world and all that?" 

Hajime rolled his eyes. "Because he's not just a shade, idiot. Most people want the people they're angry at to know _why_ they're angry." 

"She probably killed him," Sano said, and, in the midst of the ire he suddenly gave off at being called an idiot, it was difficult to gage his level of seriousness. "In which case I'm sure she'd _know_ why he's mad." 

"Maybe," Hajime pondered, "because you're so good at getting angry, he thinks you'll be willing to carry out his revenge for him." 

"Well, he's got another think coming, in that case." 

Aoshi, who'd been sipping his coffee in silence through this exchange, finally said, "We'll never be able to communicate with him as long as he's so violently angry. At least some of that intense shade has to be cleared up first. And obviously this mysterious woman is the key." 

His tone had a rare edge to it, a sharp indicator of continued interest and some of the dangerous disappointment Hajime had idly predicted earlier. The statement had also been something of a command: Aoshi wanted to talk to the ghost even more than Hajime did, and at this point was essentially ordering Hajime and Sano to find the mysterious woman and get the dead man's anger dealt with. Reminding himself of Sano as he did so, Hajime bristled at this. Unlike Sano would have, however, he didn't let it show. The ghost had to be handled one way or another, after all, and finding the woman and dispelling the shade energy seemed the logical next step. 

"If we do manage to find this anchor of his," he told Aoshi, "the result will probably be him moving on. I can't promise you're going to be able to talk to him on this side." 

Aoshi fixed him with a piercing stare in which were all the same emotions and concepts contained in his earlier tone. "What you can promise," he said, "is to relay anything you learn from him to me." 

Hajime stifled a sigh. True, they had new information and a new avenue to follow, but he almost regretted bringing the ghost here. Aoshi could be a trifle obsessive, and was unlikely to let this drop until he'd either learned something interesting or become convinced of the impossibility of doing so. Still, Hajime perfectly understood the desire, even if this wasn't the first ghost Aoshi had ever met. After all, he, too, wanted answers from the dead man... and there would certainly be no harm in passing those answers along to someone that had assisted him. "Of course," he said. "Anything else you can tell us that might help?" 

Aoshi shook his head. 

"Hang on..." Sano was obviously a little confused. "Are we going after this woman? Is that the idea here?" 

Hajime stood. "That's the idea here. Thank you for your help, Aoshi." 

Aoshi nodded. 

Sano rose, face set in a scowl of annoyance and lack of understanding. "But how the hell are we supposed to know where to even _start _looking for her? She could be anyone, anywhere -- she could be _in Japan_ for all we know!" 

Hajime didn't bother answering the question or pointing out how unlikely it seemed that the woman was in Japan. He just turned away from Aoshi's desk and moved toward the door, saying, "Do you want to be haunted forever? This is the next step to dealing with your friend, so come on." 

"But if we find the woman, this ghost is probably going to start doing horrible things to her with his stupid shade, and she'll suffer, and it'll be our fault." 

It was interesting to find Sano evidently so concerned with the situation itself, and the anonymous people involved, beyond merely as it affected him. Hajime could have responded to his protest in a number of ways, and most of them would probably have to be brought up eventually in any case, but the one he chose at the moment was, "Didn't you say you thought she killed him?" 

"I was joking!" 

As they passed across the open space where Aoshi had made the best contact with the ghost of any of them thus far, Hajime glanced down to where the previously unidentifiable object had fallen to the floor when the medium had fainted. On sight of the slightly tapering surgical steel handle and small detachable blade, he nodded slightly; that made sense. 

Outside Aoshi's office and the little hallway that led to it, they were immediately the subject of scrutiny of every eye in the place. Clearly the cashier had been gossiping to the other customers about who the boss had in his office right now, and the effect wasn't lessened by Sano's saying, as they walked out of the room, "I don't want to just sic this angry ghost out of the blue on some innocent woman!" This statement would be enough to pique the interest of anyone that overheard it -- and, by the looks of it, most of them had. 

Even if Hajime had been planning another round of posing, equivocal ghost-talk, however, Sano wasn't having it this time. He said distinctly, "Heel!" and then... well, Hajime hadn't been expecting it and didn't quite catch what he did. But in response the ghost moved quickly over to Sano and followed beside and behind him -- indeed, very like a dog coming to heel -- as Sano, scowling faintly, stalked out of the store. Hajime, fighting not to appear startled and immensely curious, hastened to follow. 

Outside, Sano took several steps away from the shop entrance before he stopped walking and turned to face Hajime. Whatever hold he had on the ghost he did not release -- it maintained its motionless position at his side -- and Hajime realized Sano must have been doing this before whenever the ghost had seemed unaccountably still. Moreover, it probably meant he deliberately _hadn't_ been doing it while Hajime had been absurdly following the ghost back and forth and back and forth through his living room on Saturday. Brat. 

But at the moment Hajime was more interested in _how_ Sano did it than why he'd neglected it two days ago. This surely answered the question of why Sano's anger had been so steadily rising in Aoshi's office: whatever method he used to hold the ghost still probably siphoned shade energy off into him, more gradually than if he were purposefully absorbing it but eventually to the same effect. 

"So where _are_ we going to start looking for our mystery lady?" Despite Sano's having asked the question relatively calmly, Hajime could easily see and sense he was still annoyed in general; the young man could probably do with releasing some anger. 

So in a tone skeptically derisive Hajime asked, "You _really_ can't think of a single idea?" 

Sano flared and scowled, but instead of an irate retort he gave a surprisingly frank answer. "No! Unless by some weird coincidence she happens to go to my school and I run into her and ghostie-guy here reacts, I have no way of finding some random woman I don't even have a name or description for! She's Japanese? How's that supposed to help? You know what kind of Asian population this city has! I mean, look at us -- we were three Japanese guys in one room there; four, if you count him--" he jabbed a thumb toward the ghost-- "pretty much just by coincidence! What are we supposed to do, just walk the Asian district until some woman comes running out and says, 'Hey, is that my ghost that I lost?'" 

The unspoken but overwhelming complaint behind this rant was, _"I'm going to have to deal with this ghost forever. The one way to get rid of him seems impossible, and he's going to haunt me for the rest of my life."_ Hajime honestly felt sorry for him, and couldn't help giving him a less condescending smile than usual. 

"Fortunately," he said, "I do have an idea." 

The startled, open, hopeful look Sano gave him was rather gratifying. "What is it?" 

"First, tell me how you're forcing the ghost to hold still." 

Now Sano glanced at the spirit in question, as if he'd forgotten he was doing that at all. "Oh, uh..." He raised a hand and gestured. "I just sort of... reach in there... same as how I reach to absorb the shade... only instead of doing that..." He twisted his hand as if he were wrapping a mass of something malleable around it and drawing it back toward him. "It sortof opens a channel for the shade energy again, so it's a pain in the ass to keep doing it... but at least I can keep him from bugging other people that way." 

Hajime nodded slowly. "You do realize that exercising any type of control over a shade like that is conjuration." That is to say, a totally different area of necrovisual magic than the one Sano claimed solely to be skilled in. 

"Yeah, I guess it is." This tone was equal parts pensive and indifferent, as if this might be a good deal more interesting later when Sano wasn't as concerned with how they could possibly get rid of the ghost that had been haunting him for weeks. "So what's your idea?" 

At this moment, a couple of customers emerged from Forest of Four. One of them elbowed the other and made what he probably thought was a surreptitious gesture toward Hajime and Sano. A few seconds longer and they would assuredly walk in this direction. 

"Let's go," Hajime murmured. "It's too early for lunch, but I wouldn't mind some coffee." The smell in Aoshi's office had been suggestively pleasant, even if Aoshi _did_ take his coffee with insane amounts of bizarrely-flavored additives. 

Sano, who had also observed the gawkers at the shop's door, nodded. 

"And I need to make a phone call," Hajime added.


	20. Seeing Red Part 9

Hajime had one of those in-car hands-free phone systems that automatically synched up the moment he turned on the engine. Sano restrained himself from asking if he could mess around with it, especially when, as Hajime backed out of the parking space, he was already starting his call. 

Nobody answered, and Hajime hung up as soon as the voicemail connected, so Sano got no clue as to who might have been on the other end. But, "He'll call back when he sees my number," the exorcist said. 

"Who?" Sano wondered. But Hajime was glancing thoughtfully from one side of the street to the other as he drove, evidently trying to decide on a destination, and didn't answer. This was, of course, very annoying, but instead of reiterating the question Sano just remarked, "Aoshi was way less helpful than I expected. I figured he'd be talking to that thing inside of a minute, and keep talking to him for hours." 

"At least he got through to him at all," Hajime replied grudgingly. "That's more than we managed." 

"I got all distracted by him fainting and talking about anchors and that woman and all that, and forgot to ask how a ghost can keep putting out shade energy." 

Hajime took his turn looking annoyed. "There were several things he probably could have told us if he hadn't fallen in love with that ghost at first sight and forgotten we were there." Sano took this to mean, _"I got distracted and forgot too,"_ which could only make him smile. But if Hajime sensed and resented Sano's interpretation of his statement, he gave no indication of it. 

They ended up at a coffee place Sano had never heard of, though it was just outside the south end of the Asian district. Sano would have sat with idle hands at the table they chose beside the front window -- gourmet drinks at pretentious little coffee shops were just too expensive for someone like him -- if Hajime, somewhat impatiently, hadn't insisted on buying him one. Sano never said no to a free... well, anything, really, but it felt a little weird to be accepting another favor from a man he technically should have been paying for his services instead of the other way around. 

Hajime picked up on this and said dismissively, "Incidental expenses." 

Sano looked dubiously at his cup. "How often do you buy coffee for your clients?" 

"Occasionally," the exorcist shrugged. 

"But they're usually already paying you money." Hajime hadn't even _asked_ if Sano could pay him, which was probably for the best since Sano didn't think he would have been able to refrain from making an only-mostly-facetious offer of gay sex in place of funds he didn't have. (He felt he was getting the hang of controlling which thoughts went out and which ones stayed hidden, and to this one Hajime didn't respond.) 

"They also usually don't give me the chance to talk to a real ghost." 

At this Sano mimicked Hajime's shrug and decided not to worry about it any further. And the next moment, Hajime's phone rang. 

Sano sat forward, listening eagerly to this side of the conversation and what little he could hear from the other party -- which wasn't much, though he thought the voice was youngish and somewhat belligerent. 

"Yes," Hajime began the discussion. "It took you long enough to call back." Then, after some apparently equally rude remark from the other end, "Of course. No, that's over and done with. I need to know if there have been any Japanese men around here who have died lately under unusual circumstances. Yes. No. He'll have left behind a woman, also Japanese -- a wife or girlfriend or maybe a family member -- someone close to him. Yes; when isn't it? No, I've got a client being haunted by an actual ghost this time. Yes. OK, thanks." 

As Hajime replaced the phone -- it was a nice-looking smart phone with a touch screen -- Sano guessed, "So... cop?" 

Hajime nodded. "He's got no magical talent himself, but he's been a believer ever since I dealt with a yellow shade he picked up somewhere. We have an unofficial arrangement that he can consult me on anything that seems magical, and in return he gives me information when I need it." 

"Sounds good," Sano nodded. Actually he was more than a little impressed. Having a contact in the police like that was better than just knowing a good medium; not only did it sound like something super-cool out of a TV show, it also rather put Hajime into a higher league of effectiveness. He supposed that was one marked difference between a career exorcist and a guy that just happened, every once in a while, to absorb red shades for his schoolmates. 

"So why _are_ you an exorcist, anyway?" Sano had asked this question, or a variant, on Saturday, but now had a hankering for a more complete answer. 

"It seemed interesting." While Sano doubted this comprised Hajime's entire reason for his career choice, he also got a feeling of truth from the words. But just then the ghost, in its sluggish circling of the table, moved right into the path of a customer getting in line, and Sano reached out and jerked the spirit toward himself to spare the poor woman some discomfort. Once she'd moved out of the ghost's likely trajectory, Sano let the figure go again. He _was_ conjuring, wasn't he? He'd never thought about it before; the action had always just seemed to come so naturally... 

Hajime, watching him with unreadable eyes, now asked unexpectedly, "What are you going to school for?" 

Sano was always a little embarrassed when people hit him with that question. "I haven't really decided. I'm just getting the general stuff out of the way right now." He shrugged. "I should probably figure it out pretty soon here... but it kinda sucks how you only have a couple of years to choose what you're going to do for the rest of your life." 

"You don't necessarily have to do what you major in forever," Hajime said with a skeptical expression. 

Again Sano shrugged. "It's easier, though. And it seems like the cooler and more fun a profession is, the less likely you are to ever be able to get into it." 

Hajime chuckled. "Only if you lack ambition and drive." 

"And luck!" Sano replied, stung. "People with cool jobs were usually in the right place at the right time." 

"With the right skillsets," Hajime appended. 

"Yeah, well... you can't go around training for every cool job in the world just in case a good coincidence happens to come along." 

"Fortune favors the prepared." 

"What does that actually mean, anyway?" 

"I can see that a strong understanding of the English language isn't part of any of _your_ skillsets." 

"I understand English just fine, " Sano said hotly. "Just old sayings and shit don't always make sense." 

Hajime only laughed at him again. 

Sano's hand clenched tightly around the coffee cup, warping the cardboard with his irate grip, but he strove not to speak angrily. "I mean, like, 'cutting the mustard?' What the hell does that mean? Or, _why_ does it mean what it means?" 

Derisive smile unfaded, Hajime did at least admit, "You have a point there." 

Someone was about to walk through the ghost again, and Sano stood abruptly as once again he pulled the it quickly toward himself. "Come on. There's too many people in here; let's go outside." 

The walk wasn't exactly picturesque; next door to the coffee shop stood a tire store that filled the air with an intolerable reek of rubber, followed by a gas station and then an apartment complex behind a tall fence. Sano was getting annoyed from dragging the ghost around so much, and it annoyed him to find himself getting annoyed for no good reason, and then he was annoyed at being annoyed at being annoyed. When Hajime evidently found this amusing, Sano at least then had good cause to be annoyed. 

It fascinated him how cheerfully Hajime took his abuse. Sano was aware -- and grateful! -- that the exorcist was and had been provoking him deliberately so he could work off some of the stupid shade anger he'd been absorbing; he figured Hajime would do that for any client. But he seemed to _enjoy_ it. Was he a masochist, or what? 

He wanted to know more than this about Hajime. His earlier question about the man's choice of profession had barely been answered, and he still wondered about the apparent improbable level of income, though perfectly aware it was none of his business. 

"I guess if you want to know that desperately, I could tell you," Hajime mused. 

Sano swore under his breath. "I thought I _wasn't_ projecting that." 

"You were still giving off a general sense," Hajime told him with a smirk. "That's harder to control." 

With a growling expression of discontent, Sano threw him a dark look. "So you gonna tell me, or what?" 

Hajime shrugged. 

Deeming that as good an answer as he was likely to get, Sano tried to decide exactly what to ask.


	21. Seeing Red Part 10

Sano had just opened his mouth for the first of what he inexplicably wanted answered when Hajime interrupted preemptively. "If you ask me something, you have to answer a question too." 

"What?" The startled Sano obviously assumed Hajime meant this as an expression of return curiosity. 

"Equal exchange." In fact, Hajime only wanted to minimize the time he had to spend talking about himself and, with the threat of reciprocation, prevent Sano from asking anything obnoxiously personal. 

"O...K..." Sano was still surprised, and seemed to be wondering whether this meant Hajime wanted to be friends or what. He _was_ improving at keeping his thoughts to himself, though, and remarkably quickly at that. Finally he said, "So what made you choose to be an exorcist? And just so you know, 'It seemed interesting' is not a real answer." 

"I'm afraid it's still the truth." Hajime gave Sano a moment to get good and angry at this, then continued. "What's the next reason for anyone's career choice, after money? Being an exorcist doesn't pay enough for me to have any reason to do it other than that it's interesting." 

"Fine," Sano allowed, very frustrated, "but, I mean, why _aren't_ you doing something that pays more? Why aren't you brainwashing people for the government or doing some non-magical job that, you know... pays more?" 

"Exorcism seemed more interesting." 

Sano made an angry noise. "I'm about to throw this ghost at you if you don't quit it." It was his coffee he raised threateningly, though. 

Hajime laughed. "You're mostly wondering how I can survive on just an exorcist's paycheck... Why is that such an area of concern for you?" 

"I don't have to tell you a damn thing until you answer my question first." Sano's jaw was set as the lowest part of an impressive scowl, and his movements had taken on an amusing angry stalking quality. 

"And I don't _have_ to answer _any_ of your questions," Hajime pointed out. "Though, technically, I did. So it's your turn. What's your issue with money?" 

"Can't you just read my mind if you want to know?" 

"I probably could. So what's your issue with money?" 

Through the midst of the bright angry aura that surrounded him by now, Sano suddenly laughed. "This is probably the stupidest conversation I've ever had." 

"It _is_ stupid, but I would hesitate to assign a superlative when you're involved." 

"You would what to what, now?" 

"Your issues with money?" Hajime prompted. 

Again Sano laughed, this time sounding defeated, though his aura was only fading slowly. "OK, fine. My 'issues with money.'" He shrugged. "I don't think I really have any. We never had a lot of money when I was growing up, but we weren't what I'd call poor or anything... My parents saved so they could help me pay for college, and I didn't get a lot of cool stuff... and we always had to 'shop smart' and shit like that, especially for food and clothes, so I never got to wear what I wanted, which you know what that _does_ to you in high school? 

"And my parents -- especially my dad -- were always lecturing me about how to manage money, like, every single time I got any; and I've been working since I was fifteen -- do you know, if you work in a restaurant when you're fifteen, you're not allowed to go into the walk-in fridge? -- and my parents made me save most of it and never get anything I wanted... but, like I said, it's not like we were poor or anything." 

As Sano listed all these issues with money he didn't think he really had, Hajime got an impression, from behind the words, of the value Sano's parents had attempted to instill in him: a rigid frugality totally foreign to his careless nature that therefore manifested now, rather than as any sort of prudence, as more of an undiscriminating miserliness with occasional outbursts of extravagance. Good thing, after such mismanagement, they were helping him with his tuition. 

"What are you grinning about?" Sano demanded suddenly. 

"Nothing. Go on." 

Though Sano had originally been annoyed at being maneuvered into giving information first, and was currently annoyed at the implication that Hajime found what he had to say funny, he was also not unhappy to be complaining about his parents and this financial business. "My dad won't leave me alone about money, ever. It's gotten so I barely even want to talk to him, because every time I do I know there's a million questions coming that I don't really want to answer; and it kinda sucks not wanting to talk to your own dad just because of something like that, but, seriously, he needs to lay off! 

"I mean, I'm twenty, for god's sake, and I have my own apartment, even if it _is_ kinda shit. And, yeah, they're helping me pay for college, but does that really mean I _have_ to do the classes _they_ want me to take? I have to get my general ed out of the way no matter what I do, so it's not like I absolutely have to decide right away, but my dad won't stop getting on my case about choosing a major. He wants me to get some kind of business degree -- you know, so I can make plenty of money -- but I still don't know if that's what _I_ want." 

"That's what I have," Hajime offered neutrally. 

"_You_ have a degree in making money, and you're still an exorcist?" As Hajime drew breath to answer, Sano added quickly, almost in a snarl, "Don't you fucking dare say it seemed interesting." 

Hajime, who had been about to, instead restrained his grin at how much fun messing with Sano was proving and said seriously, "Yes. My magical talents woke up while I was attending college here in the States, and after I'd graduated and gone back to Japan I spent a couple of years thinking a career in magic would be much more interesting than the family business, where I was expected to stay forever. But in Japan it's almost impossible to make money as an exorcist if you don't do things in approved Shinto style." 

Sano gave a _Why am I not surprised?_ laugh, and Hajime smiled a little as he continued. "When one of my grandparents left me a decent inheritance, I moved back here and took up exorcism as a career." 

Despite how little information Hajime had actually given, Sano seemed totally engrossed. Without even looking at the trash can they passed, he discarded the coffee cup he'd by now emptied. 

"Let's cross here and head back," Hajime suggested, gesturing at the street. Sano complied, still giving him an expectant look all the way along the crosswalk as if Hajime might have forgotten he was in the middle of a story of sorts. Actually, his evident fascination seemed strange; Hajime's brief narrative certainly wasn't any more interesting than Sano's talk of his parents' financial eccentricities. 

"Of course I've invested since then, to make sure I always have enough to live on when no one happens to need an exorcist." With a shrug to indicate just how mediocre he found all of this, Hajime finished, "That's all there is to it." 

Clearly impressed, Sano said, "So you didn't just get lucky getting some money from a relative..." He'd obviously been planning on making fun of Hajime for this (to the extent he was capable), but had been forestalled by further information. "You had something in mind and you went for it as soon as you could, and then you made sure you could keep doing it. Damn." He didn't even seem to be trying to conceal that he found this simultaneously inspiring and unsettling. 

Hajime too was just a trifle unsettled; he wasn't used to inspiring people, and thought Sano was assigning inordinate weight to insignificant things. So he sought quickly for a reply that would bring their interaction back to a more appropriate level. "It doesn't mean you need to lean forward and gape at me like that... you look like an orangutan." 

After the predictable (and predicted) reaction from Sano, the latter fumed for a bit and then, as far as Hajime could tell, returned to wondering at Hajime's apparent equanimity in response to his anger. He was still reading significance into unimportant things, but there was really nothing to be done about that. 

The car system announced an incoming call not long after they'd started back from the coffee shop toward Forest of Four, and Hajime answered immediately. 

"Didn't I mention my client is being haunted?" At this greeting, at his side, Sano's brows went up over a skeptical smile; he obviously couldn't tell yet that this type of rudeness and accusation was par for the course of these conversations, and assumed, therefore, that those involved must be more antagonistic toward each other than they actually were. Just to add to the effect, Hajime added, "Do you think I have all day?" 

"You know I don't really give a shit about your clients," was the retort, sounding half lazy and half harried. "Ain't _my_ clients. And you _better_ have all day, 'cause there's no way I'm getting this shit done right now. I've got other shit to do, since _I_ have a _real_ job, unlike some bullying assholes I know." 

"When do you estimate you'll have the information?" 

"Tomorrow sometime... or not sooner than never if you're a bitch about it." 

Hajime grinned. "Sooner than never sounds good. I'll be waiting to hear from you." 

"Yeah, well, don't hold your breath." 

"Thanks, Chou." 

As soon as he was convinced the call had ended, Sano laughed. "Wow, that guy sounds like a complete moron!" 

"Oh, really?" wondered Hajime. "I was just thinking that he reminds me a little of you." 

"What??" It was terribly entertaining how easily Sano's buttons could be pushed. "You know, _I_ was just thinking how rude it was that he called you a bitch, but now I think my mind's changing all of a sudden!" 

In a tone of agreement Hajime said, "It can't weigh too much, so I guess it shifts easily." 

"What does the weight have to do with it?" 

"Not too much on it." 

"I think that one was a stretch." Sano sounded both amused and annoyed, though. 

When they reached the Forest of Four parking lot, after only a few more, similar exchanges and nothing of any actual consequence between them, Sano vacated the car with some alacrity, his motions similar to those with which he'd been stalking along the street earlier. With a smirk, Hajime stood out his door and observed his companion over the roof. "I'll call you as soon as I have information," he offered. 

With a stiffness evidently born of aggravation, Sano nodded and turned away. He hadn't been holding onto the ghost in the car, and it had yet to catch up; Hajime wondered whether its relatively rapid progress along the street in pursuit of Sano caused any of the inconveniences Sano sought to prevent elsewhere by conjuring it out of people's paths. He supposed Sano couldn't be held responsible for everything the ghost did, but it was beginning to be a little odd to see him without the glowing figure close by his side. After Sano had taken a few steps away and Hajime had begun to move back in order to return to his seat, the young man stopped and turned. This time his stiffness seemed to have another basis entirely. In a voice that was half a grumble, "Thanks for the coffee," he said.


	22. Seeing Red Part 11

Sano supposed he would just have to get used to being forced to drive around in his car at times and for distances he otherwise would have avoided, at least until this ghost thing ended. And he really wanted this ghost thing to end, so he was probably less annoyed than he might have been when Hajime called him on Tuesday afternoon and requested (more or less; 'ordered' might have been a better word) that Sano come to his house to review the information his police friend had emailed him. 

He got lost on the way there, of course. Any location he'd visited exactly once was most likely to lead to this result, since he became overconfident about finding a place he'd been to before and didn't bother asking for helpful reminders such as what street it was on. So he was already angry by the time he finally reached Hajime's house, and then having to park a block away and hike back didn't improve matters. 

Evidently Hajime recognized his mood (hell, he'd probably picked up on it with Sano still halfway up the street), for on opening the kitchen door at Sano's none-too-gentle knock, he gave an extremely disdainful look and said, "So you finally decided to show up." 

"You know what?" Sano growled. "Fuck you." And immediately felt a bit better. 

Hajime grinned and let him in. 

Misao was suddenly on his knee and climbing before he'd even recognized her presence in the room. And as these pants only had spikes up the sides, she made it through the potentially dangerous area without injury this time. Sano, on the other hand, felt anger flaring again at the painful pricking of her insistent claws all the way up his body; but since he would rather die the most horrible death he could imagine than loose his rage on a kitten, he worked even harder than usual to contain it. 

Perhaps sympathizing with Sano, perhaps fearing for Misao's safety, Hajime came to the rescue of both of them. "Those pants look even stupider than the other ones." 

Misao also said something, in her high-pitched meow, and bumped her head against Sano's ear, but Sano ignored her in favor of an irate retort to her human: "At least they've got some individuality, so _I_ don't look like some faceless office drone." 

"No, you look like someone who wasn't allowed to wear what he wanted in high school trying to dress under his age." 

Both because this remark hit close to home and because he couldn't really turn the matter around effectively when Hajime looked so damn good in those suits he always wore, Sano felt compelled to repeat himself. "Fuck you!" And to make it relevant he added, "I _like_ my clothes!" 

Evidently satisfied for the moment, Hajime grinned again and turned away. 

Sano found himself now in a fit state to greet the cats. "Hi, Misao." He lifted her off his shoulder (away from his ticklish ear) and into the crook of an elbow, where she squirmed but allowed him to scratch her head. "Hi, Tokio," he said next to the older cat that was by now seated with great dignity at his feet. 

Whatever Misao had been asking before, she now resumed, and Sano somehow had a feeling Tokio's more stately meow was a repetition of the question. He glanced at Hajime for a translation. 

"They're wondering where the ghost is." The exorcist stood in the doorway between the kitchen and the hall, leaning against the frame. 

"He'll probably be here pretty soon," Sano grumbled, addressing one of the kitchen cupboards rather than the cats since this brought back his annoyance. "All that time I spent trying to find a place to park probably gave him a good chance to catch up." 

At that moment Misao squirmed so intensely and abruptly that Sano dropped her. This seemed to have been her intention, and she twisted in midair, landed on splayed feet with barely a sound, and ran out of the kitchen. Sano hardly had time to wonder what she was up to when she returned, dragging a whippy plastic stick by the little bundle of feathers on one end. 

With the latter in her mouth, her meows came out more like squeaks, but evidently they were still intelligible to Tokio, for at Misao's muffled explanation the older cat said something that sounded disdainful. Well, to Sano, most of what Tokio said sounded, but this one seemed to be specifically meant that way. Misao's reply had an undaunted tone, however, as she fell onto her side right at Sano's feet, curling up suddenly and viciously attacking the feathered end of the stick with fore and hind paws. 

Regardless of his fluctuating levels of annoyance, Sano couldn't help breaking into a grin as he watched Misao's seeming life-or-death endeavor. In particular, the vigor with which her back legs clawed at the toy seemed calculated to disembowel it -- or would have, if the thing had possessed bowels -- and was pretty funny to watch. After a couple of tries, he got hold of the flailing other end of the stick and began to direct the little cat's violent endeavors around the kitchen floor. 

"She wanted to put you in a better mood," Hajime explained, sounding amused. "But Tokio speculated she was really more interested in some play for herself." 

Laughing, Sano had to admit that, even if the altruistic purpose had been secondary, she'd succeeded at it. 

"Don't get used to it," warned Hajime. "Cats aren't known for their sense of charity; she's sure to grow out of it." 

Again Sano laughed. It wasn't as if he'd never been around cats before, but he'd definitely never fully appreciated the twistiness of frame that allowed at least this one to attack with her full body something wiggling just behind her left ear. 

Unfortunately, his speculation about the ghost's probable ability to catch up had been accurate, and he'd been playing with Misao for less than two minutes when the anger she'd done so well at shunting aside loomed once again front and center and full force. 

"God dammit," Sano muttered. He was _so tired_ of being pointlessly angry all the time. Standing abruptly straight, he found Hajime and both of the cats looking past him, but he didn't turn. He was tired of the sight of the ghost, too. Fucking ghost. 

"Let's see what we can find out about him," Hajime said, moving back through the doorway out of the kitchen and gesturing Sano to follow. 

The combination den and workroom, wherein another comfortable- (and expensive-) looking leather sofa, a TV, a number of bookshelves, and a computer desk were more or less crammed but still quite functional, Sano had already seen on Saturday. Now he stalked in and seated himself heavily on the arm of the couch with a frustrated noise. 

"Sit properly or stand," Hajime ordered as he pulled his own chair out from the desk. 

"Fine," Sano growled, and stood again. 

The exorcist removed his dark blue suit jacket and set it carefully aside before taking his seat. This was the first time Sano had seen him make such a concession to his own living space, and he wondered whether it was because Hajime still thought of Sano as a client despite his non-paying status. If so, that was stupid. 

Almost absently Hajime murmured, "I wouldn't really expect you to understand professionalism." 

Sano was annoyed both at the statement and that Hajime had picked up on the thought, but also interested to note that it seemed to be the things more specifically aimed at his companion that went out more readily. 

For instance, when, noting Hajime was wearing the third solid-color tie Sano had seen him in, he wondered mentally whether the man owned any patterned ones, Hajime murmured, "One or two" -- whereas when Sano then reflected that solid colors were probably cheaper and easily obtained in packages of multiples, Hajime gave no indication of having heard. Of course, that might be merely because it had been a phenomenally boring thought not worth responding to, or because Hajime had pulled up the email from his police friend. 

The latter might have come across as a bit of a jackass on the phone, but Sano had to admit this seemed a satisfyingly thorough report he'd put together. There weren't a lot of names, but Sano supposed that was to be expected: how many Japanese guys could possibly have died under unusual circumstances recently in _any_ given police jurisdiction? But for each one listed there were links to news articles regarding the incidents, and some specifics on the women they'd left behind. This, added to the brief biography of each of the deceased, forced Sano to say in a tone of grudging admiration, "Wow... this is good stuff..." 

Hajime smiled wryly. "You'll also notice he hasn't given us much, if anything, he could get in trouble for disclosing. We could have found most or all of this online if we'd wanted to spend a week searching. He's very good at his job, though you wouldn't guess just by talking to him." 

Sano had stepped closer and was reading the screen somewhat at random. When Hajime obligingly scrolled back to the top of the email, he began reciting the provided names aloud. 

It proved easier than he'd expected. The moment he spoke the third item on the short list, he suddenly felt he had the ghost's attention. How exactly he could tell, he wasn't sure, but something in the atmosphere of the room had changed. Whether from Sano or from the hovering spirit, Hajime too evidently recognized this. "Is that the one?" he asked. 

"Yeah, I think so," replied Sano. He stared for a moment at the words on the monitor, then turned to face the ghost in the air behind him, looking directly at it for the first time since it had entered the house. "Is this you?" he asked -- rhetorically, he supposed, since even having the ghost's attention probably wouldn't make it any easier to communicate with. "Are you Kenshin Himura?"


	23. Seeing Red Part 12

"It's kinda totally unfair," Sano was grumbling, "that to get anything from this guy we had to take him to a medium who had to cut through the shade energy with a scalpel or something and then fucking _fainted_ after getting impressions from him for, like, two minutes... but ghostie-guy here can pick up on things _we_ say no problem as long as they're about _him_ or whatever." 

'Unfair' wasn't exactly the word Hajime would have chosen to describe it, but it certainly interested him. 

Kenshin Himura, whose short biography provided by Chou matched Aoshi's assessment of their ghost, had been shot in the head, an innocent bystander in a brief, unexpected gunfight near the bus stop he'd been waiting at one day last November. He had left behind a wife and three-year-old son. And to the verbal mention of this information, the ghost -- Kenshin himself, presumably -- definitely reacted. 

And this seemed to represent an inexplicable aberration from the previously-noted inability for any information to pass the barrier of the shade energy without great effort. They still couldn't deliberately communicate with Kenshin in any way, despite this development, but Kenshin had become visibly agitated -- and, if Sano's state was anything to judge by, started emitting anger even more strongly than before -- at the presentation of facts about his death and surviving kin. Just one more thing to ask the ghost about if they could ever manage to get him to a point where questions and answers were possible. 

Toward that end, the next step had not changed: they needed to get in touch with Mrs. Himura, find out what she could tell them about her husband and his death... and take note of how he reacted to her. Why did Kenshin's anger appear to increase when his untimely end was discussed? If that increase was significant, what did it indicate? Hajime tried not to jump to conclusions when even the mere verbalization of the ghost's name prompted the same reaction. 

With that same seemingly uncharacteristic carefulness Hajime had mentioned to Sano before, Chou hadn't included contact information for the various people listed in the email, waiting for Hajime to inform him specifically which one he needed to talk to instead of handing out addresses and phone numbers wholesale. As he hadn't answered when Hajime had called, they were once again sitting around waiting to hear from him, and Sano was very annoyed. Yet only after a few unnecessary comments from Misao about how agitated the ghost was, and an equal number of insults from Hajime aimed at releasing some of Sano's anger, did his cell vibrate and display Chou's number. 

"Kaoru Himura," formed the entirety of Hajime's greeting. 

Chou must have had the information to hand, because barely a moment passed before he was reading out the address and phone number. These he followed up with, "And you didn't get this shit from me." 

"I won't expose your crooked dealings," Hajime promised sarcastically. 

"Oh, and you've gotta tell me about this ghost shit when it's over." 

"We'll have lunch sometime." (Hajime ignored the subsequent unspoken query from Sano, _Wow, what does it take to get this guy to ask you to lunch?_) He said his fairly rude goodbyes with Chou, pulled the top paper free of the pad on which he'd been writing, and stood. "Let's go." 

Kaoru Himura lived in an old, drab, but not necessarily uncomfortable-looking apartment complex in the Asian district, a part of town Hajime had been seeing a lot of this week. Sano grumbled when he realized where they were going, and -- more from the thoughts the young man didn't bother to hide than from his mostly-unintelligible verbal complaints -- Hajime picked up that he felt like he'd wasted a drive of his unreliable car by going to Hajime's house in it and then coming all the way back to the Asian district in a different vehicle. Nothing could improve that ironic situation, though, and the grumbling was entirely rhetorical. 

While waiting for the ghost to catch them up, they sat around for a while watching apartment-dwellers come and go through the parking lot, arguing about whether they should have called ahead. Hajime won that argument with the dry query, "If _you_ couldn't see ghosts and probably didn't know they existed, would _you_ agree to meet two total strangers who called and said they were dragging around your dead husband?" 

The afternoon sun shone full on the western side of the building in which the woman lived, rendering the outdoor staircase up to her floor quite warm. Later in the year this place must get intolerably hot. As they climbed and then looked for the correct door, Sano's jaw gradually set so firmly that the muscles stood out at the corners; he was clearly taking a very hard grip on the ghost so as to prevent it from doing anything he didn't want. Hajime nodded his approval. 

The door, probably metal beneath its drab grey paint, was also hot as Hajime's knuckles contacted it sharply three, four times. Then the two men stood still. Traffic on the nearby street made it impossible to hear any movement within the apartment, but Hajime had other senses that could inform him of what might be going on in there. 

Eventually, after several minutes of tense silence waiting for any response to Hajime's knock, Sano muttered, "You think she might not be home?" He shifted, uncomfortable and angry. "I mean, it's the middle of the day... she might be at work or something..." 

"No, she's on the other side of the door," Hajime stated flatly. "She's just standing there wondering why people can't leave her alone." 

Sano craned his neck as if he might see through the door if he looked from an angle that was different by a couple of inches. "She doesn't know who we are, though!" 

"But she knows we want to ask her questions, and she doesn't want to answer any more questions. It's a little suspicious." 

"Well, I don't know about _suspicious_, but--" Sano cut himself short and turned a puzzled gaze on Hajime. "Why would you think it's suspicious? It makes sense she wouldn't want to answer more questions, and she probably doesn't know we've got her husband with her, so..." 

Hajime's brows went down slightly as he attempted to catch any additional idea from the mind on the other side of the door. The woman's mental guard, at least at the moment, was fierce and desperate; it didn't feel as if she had formal training, just a solidly protective personality and a strong desire not to share anything with anyone. He shook his head. "She's much better than you are at keeping her thoughts to herself." 

"Don't you fucking start with that," Sano growled, distracted from his suspicion about Hajime's suspicion. "Not when I'm already practically lifting weights keeping this goddamn thing away from her." 

He was, too. Hajime had been peripherally aware of his struggle, but now, focusing more completely on him, noticed the small beads of sweat that had broken out on Sano's forehead. Some of them, rolling slowly down from beneath his hairline, were red from where they'd picked up bits of his colored hair gel, and looked a little like blood; but this, while morbid and somewhat interesting, was not relevant. Obviously it cost Sano a much greater effort than usual to restrain the ghost, which was rigid in the air just behind him. 

"He wants to go to her, I take it." 

Sano made another growling noise, this one completely inarticulate, but his clearly projected mental reply was, _No shit, genius_. And it was equally clear that Sano would continue to prevent the ghost from attaining this goal with every ounce of his psychic strength, and that it would be no good for Hajime to suggest he let the thing go just to see what would happen. His control might break eventually, but Hajime didn't think it wise to test his limits at the moment -- mostly because Hajime, for his part, wouldn't be able conjure the ghost back away from the woman once they'd seen what it planned on doing to her. 

Turning, he said instead, "Let's go, then." 

Sano didn't slacken his grip on the ghost until they'd made it back to Hajime's car, and kept it in such a rigidly-controlled position all the way there that Hajime observed for the first time the effect it had on a person moving through it: an apartment-dweller they passed on the way down the stairs, after walking through the ghost and surrounding shade energy, could be heard a moment later swearing vigorously at her keys as she struggled to open her door above. 

Even once they'd reached the car and taken their seats inside, Sano kept a dark, careful eye on the presumed Kenshin, obviously still concerned the ghost would want to return the way they'd come and do whatever he wanted to do to his widow. The glowing figure, however, simply took up its usual orbit of Sano in its usual relative calm. 

Sano watched Kenshin's leisurely movements around and through the frame of the car for several moments with furrowed brow and distinct frown. Finally he gave a frustrated noise and turned toward Hajime, his expression bordering on thunderous to match the thick aura of anger around him, which in turn almost perfectly matched that of the ghost. 

"Well," he growled, "what the hell do we do now?"


	24. Seeing Red Part 13

As if deliberately to provoke him, Hajime didn't answer Sano's question, elaborate on what he thought the next step was, with any sort of promptness. Instead he just sat there, pensive, his eyes seeming to stare at nothing except whenever Kenshin's roughly circular drift brought him into the exorcist's field of vision. Then the golden irises locked onto the ghost's figure and followed it until it was again out of sight. But still Hajime said nothing, and Sano was about ready to explode. 

When Hajime did speak at last, what he had to say was, "She probably saw your stupid hair and decided it wasn't worth her time opening the door." 

"_Your_ hair's the one that looks like you just bought four separate black extensions and just glued them to your forehead." Sano could actually _feel_ the angry energy filling the words, departing from him in his voice, dissipating in the air. There remained plenty where that came from, but it was still a palpable relief. 

Hajime gave a startled chuckle, as if he'd never heard his hair described quite like that before. 

"Besides," Sano grumbled, "there weren't any windows." 

"There was a peephole in the door, idiot." Seeming to judge (quite accurately) that even 'idiot' wasn't enough to work through the worst of Sano's current level of anger, Hajime added cuttingly, "I guess I shouldn't be surprised you weren't perceptive enough to notice it darken when she looked through it." 

"Yeah, in case _you_ didn't notice," Sano growled, "I was too busy holding onto some pissed-off dead fucker to really be watching for things like that." 

"It's a good thing you didn't come here alone, then; you would have _completely_ botched this." 

"I didn't botch anything! I didn't _do_ anything, except hold the fucking ghost! _You_ knocked!" 

"Like I said... she probably took one look at you and decided to stay safely inside." 

"_You're_ the one who looks like a CIA agent or something in you stupid suit!" 

"No, we established earlier that I look like a faceless office drone. To look like a CIA agent I'd need sunglasses." 

Though Sano remained some distance above even the level of anger he'd been at earlier, this exchange had helped, and the last statement made him laugh. "Well, whoever's fault it was," he said in a tone somewhat less irate, "that still totally failed." 

"So the next step is to call her." 

"Just a minute ago you were saying we _shouldn't_ call her." 

"I said we shouldn't call _ahead_," Hajime corrected. "But now calling is our only option." He held out the paper on which he'd written Kaoru's information. "So call her." 

"What, me? You want _me_ to call her?" 

"Yes." 

"But... _you're_ the exorcist. And the one who _understands professionalism_." Sano couldn't help throwing that comment from earlier back at the other man. 

"That's certainly true..." Unexpectedly, the deliberate smugness drained from Hajime's tone and gave way to a serious pensiveness as he went on. "There has to be a reason this man you don't know is haunting specifically you rather than anyone else. It doesn't seem plausible that he just chose you at random; there has to be some kind of connection. It may be that he sees something in you -- god knows what -- that drew him to you. Some characteristic that might have drawn him to you in life as well." 

"So, what, like, he's... got a crush on me or something?" Sano wondered dubiously. 

"At this point we have no way of knowing exactly why he chose you, but the fact that he _did_ makes you less of a complete stranger to his wife than I am, so you probably have a better chance of convincing her than I do." 

Still uncomfortable with the thought of calling up a recently bereft person -- to whom, no matter what Hajime said, he would still come across as a total stranger -- and start talking about her murdered husband, Sano broadened the subject. "And what if we _can't_ convince her?" 

"That's when we start behaving like cads." 

"Like what?" Startled even out of his anger by the unexpected terminology, Sano laughingly repeated, "Behaving like _what_?" 

Hajime smiled faintly. "Just giving up and not talking to her isn't an option." 

"So we ambush her or something?" Sano wondered with a grimace. 

"We'll be walking a fine line. We _have_ to talk to her, but we also have to be careful not to get ourselves indicted for harassment." 

Sano tried to think of any method of talking to an unwilling stranger that wouldn't constitute harassment. It was an annoying train of thought, but probably more because of the anger he'd been absorbing than because the prospect was maddening in itself. 

Right on cue Hajime said, "I guess I should have expected that the very idea of calling a _woman_ would _terrify_ someone like you." 

"'Someone like me?' I'm bisexual! I am not scared of women!" 

At that moment there came the buzz of Hajime's vibrating phone. When he'd glanced at it once it was out of his pocket, he informed Sano, "I have to take this." 

Sano grabbed the paper with Kaoru's information, which Hajime had eventually set down on the dashboard, and stepped out of the car. They hadn't circled back to the argument about his being the one to make the call, but he knew it would only have been a matter of time _and_ what the outcome would have been. 

At least with Hajime simultaneously on the phone, Sano wouldn't have to put up with an agitating audience. It would already be difficult enough not letting on how angry he was or how much of a jerk he felt or how stupid he knew it was going to sound. But he couldn't stand around worrying about those points, or he would lose his chance at making the call in solitude. Before he could change his mind, he forced himself to dial the number. 

With each subsequent ring, Sano became more nervous, but the tension eased out of him somewhat when a click preceded a recorded message. It was the default computerized greeting rather than a personal recording; he wondered if Kaoru had been harassed over the phone a lot since her husband's death, by the media or the police or whatever. That certainly didn't make Sano feel any better about what he had to say. 

Eventually he did have to say it, though. "Hey," he began. "This is... well, you don't know me, but my name's Sano Sagara, and I was at your door just a little while ago with a... friend... and... OK." He took a deep breath. He really should have planned out his wording before he started. "This is probably going to sound completely crazy to you, and it may hit a nerve or two also, and I'm really, _really_ sorry about that. I swear to god I'm not making this up, so just please hear me out." 

Again he took a deep breath, and began talking quickly. "I have this ghost that's been haunting me for a while, and I think it may be your husband. We're pretty sure it's you that's keeping him here, so he's going to have to contact you sooner or later if he's going to pass on, but we're having problems actually talking to him, so we need to talk to you and get some information about him and how he died. Obviously if he really is your husband, you'll want to help for his sake, but you'll be helping me too, since I can't get on with my own life when this guy's hanging around all the time. And I really am so sorry if this hurts you; I promise I would never bug someone about something like this, especially so soon after what happened, if it wasn't really--" 

A beep similar to the one that had signaled him to start now cut him off. Evidently he'd run out of time. He found his breathing a little unsteady as he listened to the options regarding the message he'd just recorded; he'd gotten worked up at the end, there, trying to convince her he honestly regretted any pain he might be causing her, when he _should_ have been trying to convince of the truth of his words. But what more could he say than he already had on that score? 

Apparently he had the option to re-record his message if he wanted to try again. Half on impulse, however, he hit the button to send it instead. It was candid, at the very least; if she valued frankness, that might do more to win her over than a smoother and more measured explanation. After a few moments' thought, though, and a glance through the window of Hajime's car that confirmed the older man was still on the phone, he did call a second time. 

"Hey, it's Sano again. Sorry if I sounded a little crazy before. This is really important, and I'm not lying or schizophrenic or whatever. Please call me back and at least we can talk things out a little on the phone." 

Hopefully that didn't seem too... well, OK, it wasn't likely, in this scenario, he would ever sound not totally weird, unless by some remote chance she happened to be a magician and knew ghosts existed -- but in that case, would her dead husband really have been forced to a total stranger? Anyway, Sano left his number and hung up, and couldn't feel terribly impressed at his own general performance. His one consolation was that at least Hajime hadn't been there to overhear... though the exorcist would undoubtedly get at the crucial details in any event. 

He stood watching the ghost whenever it passed, much as Hajime had a few minutes before, in brooding silence for a while, pondering the wisdom of making another call. Would three be overkill? _Two_ had probably been overkill. Poor woman must already think he was imbalanced and heartless. But he could reiterate the urgency of the matter... maybe mention a little more definitively how difficult this was making his life... 

He hadn't come to any real conclusion when Hajime suddenly stood out his door and asked across the roof of the vehicle, "Are you done?" 

"Yes," Sano grumbled, allowing this to make the decision for him, and got back in the car even as Hajime did. Settling into his seat and glowering out at Kenshin as the latter adjusted his trajectory, he gave an angry sigh and asked, for the second time, "Well, what the hell do we do now?"


	25. Seeing Red Part 14

"I promise you don't need to." 

They'd relocated to a Denny's, on Hajime's dime, when it became obvious that, once again, they were in for a wait on a phone call (which in this case might never come) -- and that Sano was extremely hungry but not about to suggest anything more expensive than going back to his apartment and making some ramen noodles. Hajime, trying to pick Sano's brain on the details of the message or messages he'd left, had only been able to confirm Sano's embarrassment and more determined blocking than usual. So conversational tactics were in order. 

"I don't know if I trust your promise any more than I trust your ability to leave rational messages about ghosts." 

"You're the one who said I should do it because I have a _connection_ with him or whatever. Plus _I'm_ the one who's gotta be haunted by him for god-knows-how-long if we can't find some way to get rid of him!" 

"Did you tell her that?" 

A little awkwardly Sano replied, "I told her everything I needed to." 

"I still think I should leave her a follow-up message." 

Unexpectedly Sano went on the offensive. "And what would you say? 'Hello, Mrs. Himura, this is Hajime...' what's your last name, again?" 

Amused, Hajime supplied it. 

"'This is Hajime Saitou, and I'm attempting to exorcise your husband's ghost. I've tried a variety of techniques rooted in various cultures, including traditional Shinto rituals, but since nothing seems to be working I thought I'd look you up and ask what his favorite band was so I could play the proper music during my next attempt. And did he like beer? How did he feel about cats?'" 

Sano's voice, for the first few syllables a decent attempt at imitating Hajime's, had become more and more stilted as this absurdity went on, until finally Hajime actually laughed aloud. "Don't be an idiot," he said, but he also stopped trying to get Sano to tell him what he'd said on the phone. 

When their slow and somewhat clumsy waitress, her blaring thoughts on stressful home responsibilities barely even partaking of the here and now, finally brought them their order, Sano started in on the strawberry-decked blueberry pancakes on his plate with an immediacy and gusto that would have made up for their price even if Hajime had begrudged it in the first place. He'd seen Sano eat pizza in much the same manner the other day, and at the time had speculated Sano didn't get enough to eat on a regular basis. Now, after longer exposure, he rather thought Sano just loved food that much. The young man certainly didn't have anything to say for several minutes while he made massive inroads on his breakfast-themed early dinner. 

Finally, though, Sano did manage to slow down, and to tear his eyes from the plate long enough to remember that someone sat across from him. His anger was, for the present, at the level Hajime had come to consider standard for his current haunted state, and the food had otherwise put him in a good mood. So his easy tone came as no surprise as he remarked, "So, 'Hajime Saitou,' huh? Doesn't sound too bad. 'Saitou Hajime' sounds better, though. Got a nice ring to it." 

He paused, frowning slightly, and Hajime, though without any skill whatsoever in divination, could very clearly see what was coming. "Actually, now I think about it," Sano said slowly, just as expected, a piece of sausage pausing halfway to his mouth as he pondered aloud, "it sounds... familiar. Saitou Hajime... where have I heard that name before..?" 

Hajime sighed slightly, but then grinned as the best possible response occurred to him: "Let me know if you remember." 

Sano flared. It was like having a mobile campfire Hajime could toss fuel onto at any time. "What, you're not going to tell me? So you admit you might be famous or something, but you won't remind me where I might have heard your name?" 

"That's right. It's that old saying, 'If you have to ask, you don't deserve to know.'" 

"_I've_ never heard that saying," Sano protested. 

"Then it's even more applicable." 

Sano fell to speculating. "You must be named after some actor your mom thought was hot. Probably from one of those horrible Japanese dramas I never... oh, but if your parents named you after... it would have been in..." He gave Hajime an assessing look. "The seventies or something. What was on in Japan back then..." 

With a dry chuckle, Hajime shook his head. "I doubt my parents have ever watched any of those horrible Japanese dramas." 

"Oh, yeah, they sent you _here_ for college, didn't they? So maybe they were watching horrible _American_ shows. In the seventies -- and I'm just guessing, here," he added proddingly, "since I'm not that _old_ \-- wouldn't it have been... _Saved By the Bell_? But they wouldn't have gotten a name like 'Hajime' out of that..." 

"Wrong decade. And sitcoms wouldn't really have appealed to my parents either." 

Sano caught at the sardonic tone of Hajime's statement and, completely abandoning the name issue, wondered, "Oh, really? What do they watch instead?" 

"If they watch anything, it's not for entertainment. Stock market analysis is more their speed." 

"Oh, you've got one of those stereotypical Japanese _business_ families." 

"Says the son of miserly immigrants." 

"Only my mom's an immigrant," Sano protested angrily, "and only my dad's a miser." Based on what Sano had told him yesterday, Hajime didn't think the second point entirely true, but it didn't matter; he'd wanted to bait Sano more than compare stereotypes. 

As Sano calmed a little after his flare-up, Hajime admitted, "But you're right. My parents are both top executives in the company my paternal grandfather owns, and we were all expected to join in as soon as we were old enough." 

"'We?' So you've got siblings?" 

Hajime nodded. "An older brother and sister." 

"And did they both go into the family business like good little offsprings?" 

Again Hajime nodded. And again he felt just a little nonplussed. Glad though he was to have avoided the 'Saitou Hajime -- where have I heard that before?' conversation, which he'd had enough of by the time he'd turned twelve, he still considered Sano more than justifiably interested in his past and his family. 

"So if they were already doing the thing," Sano mused, "there probably wasn't as much pressure on you to do it too?" 

"You might think so..." At the memories, Hajime smiled distantly and wryly. "But two out of three wasn't enough for my parents." 

"Well, yeah, that'd be a failing grade on an assignment..." 

"And my parents are ruthless; it comes from the type of work they do: petty hostile takeovers and driving rivals out of business... I wasn't the only one in the family who didn't like it." 

"Funny..." Sano set down his glass after a sip of soda, and looked at Hajime with a thoughtful grin. "I wouldn't have thought you'd be the type to not like ruthlessness." 

"Oh, no." The smile Hajime returned Sano, he'd been informed in the past, made him appear rather evil. "I have no personal objections to ruthless tactics in a good cause." He rolled his eyes slightly and tried not to sigh. "But this is _telecommunications_. Whatever my parents may think, this is not a beleaguered band of heroes fighting oppression and tyranny. They make _cell phones_. There are appropriate times and places for ruthlessness, and this isn't one of them." 

And there he'd gone and impressed Sano again. It was almost embarrassing. 

"So what'd they do, send the yakuza after you or something?" Sano was only half joking, his eyes wide with interest and admiration. 

"I wouldn't put it past them." Hajime too was only half joking. "Though that's more my brother's style than my parents'. But, as I've mentioned, it was my mother's father who helped me out. He never approved of the way my parents did business, and he could see I was on his side... the money he left me could almost be considered a bribe; he was paying me to get away." 

"This is why your parents didn't watch horrible Japanese dramas: your whole family _was_ a horrible Japanese drama." Sano's attempt at scraping the last of the syrup and grease off his plate wasn't working very well, mostly because he was using a fork, and this in addition to his conjuration of the ghost out of the path of staff and patrons in the increasingly busy restaurant was evidently building his anger up again. 

Once more Hajime chuckled wryly, and they fell silent as Sano finished his Dr. Pepper and Hajime bent his attention to the remainder of his own dinner. 

Finally, "Do you really think she's going to call back at all?" Sano asked, and the quietness of his tone did little to hide his shifting mood. 

"That depends on what you said to her." Calculatedly Hajime added, "If it was as stupid as I'm inclined to believe, probably not." 

They threw that topic back and forth for a while to work off some of Sano's anger. He sometimes had surprisingly clever retorts, which combined with the constant and almost measurably predictable ire to make him an unexpectedly enjoyable conversational companion (when he wasn't gaping over some perceived trait or accomplishment of Hajime's as if he'd never met another human being before). But eventually, unfortunately, they had to talk business again: they'd both finished eating, and it would be best to let Sano take the ghost somewhere less full of innocent bystanders. 

"Whatever nonsense you left Mrs. Himura on her voicemail, it will probably take her a while to decide to call you back, if she doesn't just decide you're insane and try to ignore you. We need to give her some time, so I suggest we both go home for now." 

Of course Sano had to argue this too, as they left their table and moved to pay for the meal and exit the restaurant; and since he didn't bother to lower his voice, his frank mention of the ghost haunting him won them some looks on the way out both skeptical and interested. 

Despite the United States government taking a dim view of the idea of widespread knowledge on the topic, talking about magic in public generally wasn't considered dangerous or inappropriate, since anyone unaware that magic actually existed simply didn't believe the discussion serious... but such conversations did sometimes have interesting, even entertaining results. Once, after the conclusion of some business arrangements on the phone, Hajime had been approached by an unfortunate homeless gentleman that had overheard him discussing exorcisms and wanted to tell about all the dead celebrities that wouldn't leave him alone. Hajime's diagnosis had been 'crazy and malnourished' rather than 'haunted.' 

Sano, who was the opposite, continued to grumble as they headed back to Hajime's house, and rather on a whim Hajime decided to relate the aforementioned experience. It proved a good thought, since the ensuing conversation distracted Sano all the way to their destination; he didn't even have time to complain again about the condition of his car. He did recover some of his annoyance when instructed to contact Hajime the moment Kaoru Himura called him (if she, in fact, did so), but still the two men parted in relative peace. And Hajime went inside thinking the day not _entirely_ wasted.


	26. Seeing Red Part 15

Technically, cell phones weren't allowed out at Imperial Panda II for anyone on the clock. But aside from the current manager's love affair with her Blackberry that inclined her toward leniency, the maintenance guy pretty much went his own way all day and didn't have a lot of critical eyes looking over his shoulder. And no way in hell would Sano be away from his phone in case that woman called him back. 

She didn't. As Sano unloaded the delivery truck and kept the ghost away from people, shelved the load and kept the ghost away from people, organized the dry stock area for the second time in the last ten days and kept the ghost away from people, fixed the oven again and kept the ghost away from people, then went on lunch break to eat an uninspiring free meal, keep the ghost away from people, and look forward to the _second_ half of his day, he grew increasingly impatient and concerned. And this was largely in response to the apparent increasing impatience and concern of the ghost. 

Yesterday's approach of Kaoru Himura, Sano thought, had made Kenshin more restless. It was difficult to tell for certain when the ghost seemed so aimless in general, but Sano believed dragging his unwanted guest out of people's paths required more effort and led to a quicker and more intense buildup of anger today than previously. Kenshin never made any move to leave Sano, to go anywhere or do anything other than what he'd been doing all along, but pretty clearly he _wanted_ to do something; and Sano was sure it had something to do with his widow. 

What had Hajime said they would do if she never called back? 'Start behaving like cads,' hadn't it been? At least Sano had _that_ fairly hilarious memory to cheer him up a bit, even if the referenced caddishness, seeming more and more likely with each passing hour, was little to his taste. He didn't want to think about the effect it might have on the unfortunate woman if they started more or less stalking her. What a miserable idea. 

Of course the alternative was to think about his own situation. How long could he keep working so hard to prevent Kenshin's angry aura from harming and enraging people around him before he decided he just didn't give a shit and let the ghost do whatever it wanted to anyone that came near him? Or, worse, got so angry himself that he actually started deliberately conjuring Kenshin in the direction of others? 

The last couple of weeks had been difficult and frustrating, especially at school where there were a number of innocent bystanders in a small space for hours at a time; and studying and homework had been practically impossible... and that had all been _before_ their visit to Kaoru's apartment had kicked things to a higher level. If they didn't manage to get this solved before Spring Break ended... if Kenshin kept acting like this... Sano might as well drop all his classes, quit his job, and move out onto a secluded island right now. 

When Imp Panda finally turned him loose that afternoon, he managed to make it all the way home before his frustration got the better of him and directed his fingers to dial Hajime's number. This waiting had been the exorcist's idea, after all; the least he could do was suffer alongside Sano. 

"I actually expected to hear from you much earlier," was Hajime's greeting. 

"I was working," Sano replied angrily. "I kept my phone on through my whole shift -- nine hours! -- and she never called." 

"We already acknowledged that possibility," Hajime reminded him. "She may _never_ call." 

Remembering what would happen in that case, Sano demanded, "Isn't there some way we can do this _without_ bugging her? I mean, _you're_ a communicator; why can't you just read her mind?" 

"Getting past someone's shields and reading their mind when they don't want you to is difficult and takes a lot of practice." 

"Practice you haven't had," Sano finished bitterly, "because you've been playing with shades instead." 

Hajime said nothing, as if he just wasn't going to bother with an answer to that. 

The noise Sano made, half whine and half growl, sounded so much like a dog that even he was taken aback... and maybe a little amused, which helped. "I don't want to," he said next, "but... do you think I should call her again? Or maybe we should go back to her place and see if she'll talk to us there this time?" 

"No and no. If we're too persistent, she'll call the police. There's only so much Chou can smooth over for me." 

"What good _are_ you, then?" A second silence came from the other end, and the vacuum of that silence eventually dragged out of Sano a grumbled, "I mean… what the hell am I supposed to…" And again he made an angry sound, even more frustrated now because he was too annoyed to offer the apology he felt he probably should for his unfair implication. Without Hajime, after all, his chances of finding out the identity of the ghost and locating the widow would have been practically nonexistent. 

Now Hajime spoke, and, instead of calling Sano on his rudeness or even continuing on the topic they were more or less discussing, he said, "You grew up around here, didn't you?" And while Sano in surprise worked to change gears Hajime added, "For a given value of 'grew up.'" 

"Sortof," Sano replied, wondering why Hajime wanted to know and bristling at the casual insult. "We moved here when I was just about to turn fourteen." 

"From?" 

"Paso Robles, down south." 

"And were you born there?" 

"Nah, we moved there when I was two or three; I was born in Carson City." 

"Did you like Paso Robles?" 

Sano thought he understood now: this was distraction, pure and simple. Well, fine; he could handle that. "It was OK. Not a big Japanese population, so I got most of my heritagey culture from anime." At Hajime's derisive laugh, Sano continued determinedly in a tone that sounded incongruously angry. "The best part was right when we moved out, actually; this earthquake hit pretty much the same day we were loading up the moving van." 

"And that was a good thing?" 

"Well, not for the people who died, obviously, but it was pretty damn cool anyway. It was a 6.5, and it made this fucking _enormous_ sinkhole open up in the library parking lot. I just checked online, like, a week ago, and they _still_ haven't fixed that thing, seven years later." 

"You're so attached to the town that you're still checking on it?" Maybe because of the level of investment Sano had displayed in the subject, Hajime too actually sounded interested. 

"Not the town, just the sinkhole. Sinkholes are awesome." 

"Are they?" 

"Yeah. And earthquakes. I mean, they're bad for people, but they're still… cool. This one hot spring under the town used to be totally dead, but the quake brought it back to life. You know what kind of seismic activity that takes?" 

"A 6.5, presumably." 

"Well, yeah, but, I mean, there's a specific combination of circumstances to get a hot spring going again to the surface and have it stay that way; it's not something that happens every day." 

Now a third silence emanated from Hajime's end of the phone, though Sano thought he caught the distant sound of one of the cats -- Misao, probably -- asking a question. And this silence didn't seem designed to abash Sano or make him rethink his words; rather, it sounded pensive. Finally Hajime asked, "And why aren't you studying geology?" 

"Oh. Well. Not as much money there as where my dad wants me." 

"Do you have reliable statistics on that?" 

"Not off the top of my head!" 

"Maybe you should look it up." 

"Yeah, sure, maybe I should... if this goddamn ghost will let me do _anything_ without wanting to put my fist through the monitor." 

Hajime laughed, which was annoying. "It's at least something to think about while you wait for Mrs. Himura to call." 

"I am so fucking tired of waiting for phone calls." 

"Better not get into big business, then." 

With another annoyed noise -- Sano had always been good at those, but lately he'd been taking the art to new levels -- he said in frustration, "I'll call you again later," and abruptly hung up. 

He found his mood more mixed than before: just as angry, certainly, but now with an added restlessness born of interested thoughts. As he'd talked to Hajime he'd been pacing the linoleum of his tiny kitchen with a heavy step; when at some point in the process the ghost had joined him, he'd taken -- as he not infrequently did at home -- to turning gradual circles as he moved to and fro so as to keep his back to the thing at all times. The anger seemed to grow more slowly when he wasn't looking at it. Now, however, he'd stopped moving and turned to face the computer on his cinder-block-and-particle-board desk across the room. 

Truth to tell, he hadn't given geology any conscious thought, but in the back of his head always figured it was one of those science things that taught you a lot of interesting stuff but didn't provide a lot of career opportunities unless you happened to live in Antarctica. But it _would_ be kinda cool. OK, more than kinda; he was excited and cheered just thinking about it. 

Well, if he was careful and got up and away from the computer the moment he felt the rage building too far, it was worth checking, right? He'd been assuming all along geology wasn't a viable option, so he couldn't discover anything worse than what he'd already thought. And what else did he have to do right now? Get pissed off... play video games and eventually throw the controller in the toilet... maybe call Hajime back and try to abuse him... Except Hajime had made this pleasant suggestion, so that didn't quite seem fair. Of course it had simply been in an effort to keep Sano distracted and occupied until either the woman called back or the exorcist decided they'd waited long enough... but Sano couldn't help feeling grateful, which was an intriguing contrast to his still-present anger. 

At the very least, as the man had said, this gave him something to think about.


	27. Seeing Red Part 16

One of the impressions Hajime had already gotten about Sano without actually having it confirmed for certain was that he didn't rise early by choice. Therefore, when the exorcist's phone rang at around eight o'clock on Thursday morning and displayed Sano's number, Hajime could only consider it a good sign. And when Sano's greeting was a somewhat breathless, "She left me a message," it was as if he'd had a divination confirmed. 

"She called at, like, three in the morning," Sano went on. "It woke me up, but I didn't get to the phone in time, but it's fine 'cause she left a message." He sounded almost giddy, and once again Hajime had to sympathize a little; given the current situation, it was no wonder this progress in their attempt at getting rid of the ghost pleased the young man so much. 

"What did she say?" 

"She wants us to meet her at Isei Park at noon. That's not too far from my apartment -- actually I used to hang out there all the time when I was a kid; do you know where it is?" 

"I'm sure I can find it." Hajime was grinning somewhat, almost in spite of himself, at Sano's tone: it was so unusually _happy_, but without having lost any of its customary underlying anger, which made for an intriguing sound. 

"Well, I'm going to head over there right away." 

"Four hours early?" 

"I straight-up called in sick to work, so I've got the whole day. I'll take my books and see if I can get some studying done, and probably grab some breakfast on the way over at that place next to..." Suddenly seeming to decide that Hajime probably didn't really care what his exact plans were -- which assumption, though logical, was not entirely true -- Sano finished abruptly, "So anyway, I'll see you there around noon, right?" 

The answer Hajime had planned on giving was overridden by Misao making her insistent way around his neck to the hand that held the phone, and yowling into it as best she could while trying, at a bad angle, to keep her balance. 

"Hi, Misao," Sano was chuckling from the other end even as Hajime lifted her off his shoulder and set her on the floor. 

"She has nothing real to say," Hajime translated. "She just likes phones." 

Sano was still laughing. "Yeah, I got that." 

"Did you?" Without allowing Sano to reiterate that he had, Hajime continued, "Anyway, I'll meet you at the park later." 

"Right. See you then." 

Hajime set the phone on the floor for Misao to yell into until she realized there was no one on the other end, and stood a few moments in silent thought. Although the upcoming meeting with Kaoru Himura _might_ be significant and productive, there was no guarantee it _would_ be. He didn't for an instant believe the ghost's anger would just suddenly dispel and the ghost himself fly off to the afterlife the moment they encountered his wife; Kenshin undoubtedly had something he wanted to say -- probably a maudlin goodbye not worth nearly the amount of trouble he'd been giving Sano -- and of course he couldn't communicate with her while all channels were blocked by the shade. So today's talk with his widow was little more than an exploration of another possible avenue to getting rid of that shade, and might prove disappointing for nearly everyone involved. 

Well aware of this, Hajime felt it would be wise to talk to Sano about it before Mrs. Himura showed up -- to give him a cautionary reminder that this was just one step in a longer process and he shouldn't expect too much. Sano, it seemed, excelled at emotions in general; of course his constant anger had amused Hajime all along, and just now his happiness and excitement over the phone had been almost infectious... but, interesting as it might be, the exorcist didn't really feel any desire to see Sano in a state of despair. 

Actually, Hajime had the most unaccountable inclination to go to Isei Park right now to annoy Sano for the next few hours. It had nothing to do with the ghost; he just wanted, essentially, to poke Sano and see what he did. He'd never had such an entertaining client before. Of course, he'd never had a client with a disembodied soul floating around him; Sano couldn't help being unusual. 

Well, nothing would keep him from it. He had no other cases on -- he'd lined up a meeting for next Monday with what sounded like a blue shade victim (though it might turn out to be perfectly natural clinical depression; those situations often did), but at the moment it was all Sano -- and he'd cleaned his entire house yesterday. He'd even already had breakfast. And surprisingly little noise came from his conscience in response to this desire deliberately to bother another human being for no better reason than his own pleasure. 

As it happened, he didn't set out _right_ away. He spent a good twenty minutes wearing Misao out with the laser pointer while Tokio watched with a put-on disdain that couldn't hide her desire to join in, then about the same amount of time answering an email and paying a couple of bills. But it was barely nine o'clock when he did leave the house, and not even nine thirty when he arrived at the park near the center of the Asian district and started looking around for Sano. 

Even this early in the day, the convoluted concrete skating area was alive with mobile, shouting kids -- it must be Spring Break for more than just Sano. The latter, with his blue-gelled hair, enormous backpack, and glowing undead friend, was easy to spot on a bench nearby. Perhaps this had been where Sano used to hang out; his current look might even partake somewhat of the skater style, but Hajime, unclear on fine subcultural distinctions, couldn't be sure. 

To test the young man's mood, Hajime greeted him with, "Trying to reconnect with your fellow childish idiots?" 

"Wow, that was harsh even for--" Sano attempted simultaneously to turn toward Hajime (who'd approached him from behind), look at his cell phone to see the time, check that the ghost wasn't making any trouble, and give an angry gesture -- all without dislodging the messy arrangement of textbooks and notebooks across his lap and the bench beside him. And in keeping with this, he attempted to say several things at once. "What time-- why are you already-- are you trying to say skaters are-- I'm not even--" And at last, inevitably, he dumped his things all over the ground, and, swearing, jumped up to recover them. 

Hajime leaned against the bench and looked down. He might have considered lending a hand, since the spill had to a certain extent been his fault, but it was more amusing just to watch. Sano's previous level of investment in his studying struck him as negligible in any case. Anger, perhaps -- the usual anger -- had kept him from better concentration; but Hajime also thought he observed a certain measure of that same excitement and happiness he'd heard over the phone in Sano's somewhat jerky movements gathering up his stuff from the grass. Yes, they would definitely need to have a talk about today's prospects; Sano's optimism pleased him, but he needed to be prepared for its inevitable dispelling. 

It turned out Hajime was in for a bit of a surprise. For by the time Sano had gotten himself resettled on the bench and begun stowing his school things away in his backpack in a clear indication he didn't plan on attempting to make any further use of them right now, he was already well into a dissertation that revealed the cause of his current mood to have far less to do with Mrs. Himura than Hajime had assumed. 

"So after you bugged me about it yesterday," he was saying, "I went online and looked up stuff about geologists and the kinds of jobs available for them and shit... and you were totally right..." Admitting to this didn't seem to be the slightest problem, so pleased was Sano. "I really needed to look before I decided about that!" 

"Of course you did, you idiot." Though not having expected the friendliness of his own tone, having thus started, Hajime decided he might as well continue; so, with no real concept, himself, of the career options of an aspiring geologist, he went on in some legitimate interest, "Good news?" 

Sano twisted to face him, pulling one leg up entirely onto the bench and placing both arms on its back as he gave Hajime a grin almost childlike in its enthusiasm. "So you know oil, that thing everyone's fighting over all the time? Guess who those companies hire." 

"And that fact never occurred to you before?" Of course, it hadn't occurred to Hajime either, but _he_ wasn't the one with an apparently long-standing fascination with weird underground activity. 

Sano's brows twitched a little at the sarcasm, but it sidetracked him not one step. "I'm not really all that interested in finding oil, because that sounds boring and stupid; I'd rather be taking readings inside live volcanoes or something... but there are jobs like that too, and the point is, I can tell my _dad_ about the oil thing, and he'll totally go for it." 

"So you've decided on this?" For the brevity of this statement, the skepticism of its delivery compensated by adding a heavy, unspoken, _"Already?"_

This time Sano _did_ emit some anger in his response. "I make fast decisions, OK? Nothing wrong with that." 

"Somehow I'm not surprised," murmured Hajime. And he truly wasn't. He wasn't terribly condemnatory, either; to his understanding, most people changed their majors several times before any permanent fixation, so the distance of the conclusion to which Sano had jumped would likely make little difference in the long run. 

"Besides, I've _kinda_ wanted to do this for years." While still defensive, Sano's tone was creeping back toward the excitement of only moments before, which seemed to be the resilient sort. "It wasn't just the stuff in Paso... you can't live by the San Andreas most of your life without getting interested in earthquakes!" 

"I think most normal people can," Hajime said easily. 

Sano made one of those frustrated noises he was so good at, but even this held a note of interest and enthusiasm. "Well, normal people are stupid." 

Hajime had to agree. 

"Seriously, though, online yesterday, I found all sorts of interesting shit about volcanologists and stratigraphists and people who specialize in just one specific geological era, and..." 

And as Hajime settled in to listen to Sano's ongoing raving, he reflected that, though he hadn't planned on this _precisely_, he didn't at all regret his decision to come to Isei Park two and a half hours early.


	28. Seeing Red Part 17

To what extent he'd been going on and on about yesterday's internet discoveries, and, perhaps even more intriguingly, to what extent Hajime had been indulging him in that, Sano didn't realize until the ghost gave a sudden stiffening or intensifying and seemed to shift its orbit somewhat in the direction of the parking lot and the playground. The usual heat-wave overtook him at this increased ghostly activity, all the greater because his internal anger had, to a certain extent, been pushed aside for the last couple of hours. Of course Hajime had been making rude interjections all along in order to draw it out, but Sano's excited happiness had been dampening that outlet. 

Now he experienced a second instance of the futility of trying to look around behind him and check both the time and the ghost all at once; but Hajime, who had eventually joined him on the bench, announced that it was 11:40 and Kaoru Himura had just emerged from a car over in the parking lot. 

"How do you know that's her?" Now Sano too looked over at the woman, who was distant enough that her features couldn't be made out in detail. 

"Don't be stupid. She's an Asian woman arriving near noon, looking around nervously, and getting a three-year-old out of her car." 

Since she hadn't been doing either of the latter activities when Hajime had made his initial pronouncement, and since being Asian didn't signify anything when nearly everyone here was, Sano said pointedly, "So you mean you guessed." 

"The man with her is her father." Ignoring the accusation, Hajime continued to gaze thoughtfully across the grass. "At least she had the sense not to come alone, in case we do turn out to be psychopaths." 

"You're still guessing." Sano's heart wasn't in it this time, though, as his attention had been entirely caught by the little boy the presumed Kaoru Himura was doing something to the shoes of in preparation for turning him loose in the playground. Even from here the bright red of the kid's hair drew the eye, in stark contrast to the mother's black. What was it Aoshi had said about Kenshin? 'Half Japanese, half American?' It showed in his son. Sano snorted faintly. 'American;' what kind of description was that? He never would have inferred red hair from that. 

The man Hajime had identified as Kaoru's father, closing the passenger door of the car they'd come in, was talking to her with some rapidity, even urgency. Hajime supplied, "He thinks this is a bad idea." 

With a skeptical glance at his companion, Sano wondered, "How can you get that from over here?" 

"I can only get a very vague impression," admitted Hajime, "but that's more because of all the people around than the distance. But look at his body language." 

He had a point; the man pretty clearly wasn't happy about the whole situation. Kaoru must have told him the purpose of this trip, and the 'psychopaths' scenario suggested a moment ago probably seemed the most likely to him. Apparently, however, having decided to do this, Kaoru would not be to be talked out of it, for she replied with an evident determination despite _her_ body language that suggested she still didn't feel entirely sure about this course of action. 

The little son tugged at his grandfather's hand, eager to get to the playground; meanwhile, Kaoru gestured quite clearly in the direction of Hajime and Sano over by the skate park, and the man shook his head. "She knows who we are," Sano muttered. With the ghost twitching in the direction of its wife, tugging enthusiastically at Sano's psychic hand, he thought he knew exactly how that grandfather felt. 

"Your hair," said Hajime in a tone of reminder, and got to his feet facing the distant party as if acknowledging a greeting. Presently, thinking vaguely mutinous thoughts (he _liked_ his hair), Sano joined him standing. Eventually the three by the parking lot broke up; Kaoru Himura came in their direction, while her father and son moved off toward the playground. 

With every step the woman took toward them, the force of the ghost's straining against Sano's hold grew perceptibly stronger, just as it had as they'd approached her apartment the day before yesterday. It felt like restraining a large, increasingly excited and persevering dog, assuming it was a dog that couldn't keep from rendering him more and more irate as minutes went by. He wondered what precisely would happen if he simply let go. 

As Mrs. Himura drew nearer, Sano tried to distract himself from the growing anger by studying her face and figure. She was fairly short, with black hair and blue eyes, and he couldn't really work up much more of a mental description than that. 'A beautiful Japanese woman,' Aoshi had said, but Sano thought this had come more from the woman's husband than the medium, because Kaoru, while not _ugly_ or anything, definitely had a sort of girl-next-door look that Sano would not have described as 'beautiful.' And actually, that was interesting, because why-- But she'd reached them and, with the stiffest backbone Sano had ever seen, offered the following greeting: 

"I haven't decided I don't think you're crazy, or _I'm_ not crazy for being here, but I'm giving you a chance." 

"Thank you," Hajime nodded. "Of course we understand your reservations, and we appreciate you coming to talk to us at all." He extended a hand. "I'm Hajime Saitou, an exorcist. And you've already heard from Sano." 

Sano hadn't observed this particular professional act in Hajime before, probably because Sano himself was an abnormal sort of client, and he found the polite, slightly obsequious tone a little creepy. Kaoru, however, seemed somewhat reassured, for just a tiny bit of the tension left her shoulders, and she shook Hajime's hand before turning to Sano. 

Although no physical movement was involved in holding the ghost, still Sano felt as if he rendered his grip less secure by giving Kaoru his hand; but he also felt, first, that it would be counterproductive to start this conversation by being rude or unfriendly, and, second, that he didn't want to be outdone by Hajime. "Good to meet you," he said as he returned the woman's firm handshake. Then, because that had already sounded a little angry, he added less darkly, "Glad you came." 

She heard the anger, and the subsequent enforced cheer did not prevent her from tensing up again. It wasn't merely uncertainty about a weird meeting that showed in her bearing and visage, but unhappiness and weariness too... a weariness of long standing, and an unhappiness that had etched delicate lines around her eyes before this. It made Sano even angrier just seeing it; he couldn't stand idea of contributing to her pain. And this further increase in ire she noticed too, and stiffened even more. 

Hajime stepped in. "Let's have a seat and talk." 

As if reluctant not to keep wary eyes on the dangerous one at all times, her gaze left Sano sluggishly, followed Hajime's gesture to the bench, then moved to the exorcist's face. Without budging she asked, "You say my husband is here right now?" 

For the answer Hajime glanced at Sano, who said, "Yeah, he's..." Helplessly he indicated, knowing how it would look and sound. "He's right here." He tried very hard to speak calmly as he added, "I'm working hard holding him still, so we'll let Hajime do most of the talking." 

Kaoru stared at what surely looked to her like a normal empty patch of air, her eyes directed at a point where she probably guessed the face would be, but which, with the height at which her husband floated, was actually chest or stomach level -- assuming this form of the ghost corresponded with his actual physical attributes (which would mean Kenshin, like his wife, was pretty short). 

With an expression like a brittle surface that must eventually crack, she abruptly turned away from the ghost and sat down on the bench. 

Hajime took the place beside her, though he didn't look at her, and said, "I'm sorry to have to ask, but what can you tell us about your husband's death?" 

Sano, who hadn't returned to the bench himself but stood, every bit as stiff as Kaoru, at its end looking down obliquely at her, now glanced at Hajime with a surprise that momentarily cut through his growing anger. No, Hajime's tone wasn't gentle or comforting -- despite only having known him for a week, Sano already believed with assurance that the world might come to an end at any gentle or comforting tone from Hajime -- but in the calm, low voice there was an audible (to Sano) desire not to wound or even disturb more than necessary... and this, from that source, seemed extraordinarily thoughtful. 

Whether Kaoru recognized the unusual consideration, Sano could not tell. In any event, she took a deep breath and, staring down at the clenched hands she'd laid on her knees, began speaking very rapidly, perhaps feeling that if she didn't get through her story quickly she wouldn't be able to get through it at all.


	29. Seeing Red Part 18

"I don't know how much you already know, since I don't know how you found me, but if you've read the articles or talked to the police you probably know as much as I do. On November 23rd last year, Kenshin was taking the bus home from work -- he worked at the Humane Society, which you probably know is way across town from here, but we lived a little closer to it then; I only moved back here to be near my parents after..." She gave a pained-sounding clearing of throat and paused for a moment before going on at the same pace as before. "He was on his way home, waiting for his connecting bus, and there was a gunfight in the street near the stop. It was a gang thing. 

"They said he must have tried to take shelter down a little street behind the bus stop, because that's where he was found. It's not the best area -- it was the stop at Hamlet and 11th, if you know it, which is statistically the worst part of the city for gang activity -- and though there aren't a lot of gunfights, they do happen, and there does happen to be a bus stop right there, so it was inevitable that eventually someone would..." 

Her face had been growing more and more brittle throughout this dissertation, her voice tighter and tighter. Something was going to crack, and the result would surely be sobbing and tears and probably a good deal less coherence. She cleared her throat again and took a deep breath not entirely steady. 

"He didn't always take the bus to work; we do have a car. It was perfect coincidence that I needed it that day." Her voice sank as she added in a self-accusatory tone, "But of course I _didn't_ need it. I work from home... I didn't _have_ to go shopping that day... if I hadn't kept the car -- I _didn't need it_ \-- he wouldn't have been at that bus stop. He would never have been at that bus stop." Tears were definitely starting to surface; it was difficult to see her eyes, still turned down as they were toward her knees and the hands clenched thereon, but the intonation could not be mistaken. She was on the verge of losing the careful control she'd undoubtedly built up painstakingly over the last few months of repeating this story. 

She was also _lying_. 

This frustrated Hajime to a pitch that heightened with every word she spoke. Exactly what she was lying about, exactly why she'd chosen to lie, and exactly how it pertained to the current situation and her husband's ghost, he could not begin to determine, but she couldn't hide from him the general sense of untruth behind her words. 

What she _could_ hide from him was just about everything else. She guarded so fiercely, he couldn't even get at completely unrelated thoughts in her head. Moments like this made him regret never training more thoroughly in communication, and he decided then and there how he would be spending his spare time after this ended, so bothersome was it not to be able to reach a truth that would, presumably, help everyone present. 

"He was actually shot twice," she went on, surprisingly with no great increase in breakdown of control: "once just behind his right ear, and the other just in front of it. He was unconscious when he was found and taken to the hospital, and it took him less than an hour to pass away. I didn't even make it over there before... I didn't get a chance to..." After another trembling breath she went on more steadily, "They said, if there was any pain, it was probably over with quickly." 

Throughout this discourse Sano had been shifting restlessly, and, though Hajime doubted the young man could sense the concealment, clearly the woman's words -- especially these last -- did nothing to help decrease the already significant level of anger he struggled to deal with. But Kaoru, gaze still fixed on her knees, appeared to notice none of this. 

"The police also said the sweatshirt he was wearing might have contributed, since he'd pulled the hood up, probably to hide his face and hair in the dark or something, and that might have made him look more like a member of one of the gangs. I always thought he should wear a jacket that didn't look so... young... he was thirty-two, but you'd never guess... and it was mine in the first place; I mean, it was grey, but it was a woman's hoodie..." Evidently these somewhat rambling details were more difficult to relate than the physicalities of the death itself, and the tears now stood visibly on her face. Hajime deemed her distress genuine, but couldn't pass judgment on the accuracy of her account. 

"He was always doing that: wearing my clothes without realizing anyone would think it was weird. And the _really_ weird thing was they looked just fine on him -- usually better than they did on me. But I still used to give him a hard time about it, because of Kenji and the neighbors and because he never seemed to notice it was a little weird." Her words became more and more difficult to understand as sobs broke into her sentences and a constricted throat marred her pronunciation. "For a while after... last November... I kept thinking, 'If I could just have him back, I'd never get on his case about that again. He could wear anything he wanted -- not just jeans and things, but dresses or whatever -- if he would just come back.' And every time I realized I was thinking that way, I got so angry at myself for being so stupid... but it still took a while to stop." 

This latest set of revelations Hajime believed to be totally honest, since it had nothing to do with Kenshin's death, and the overwhelming sense of deception had faded somewhat from Kaoru's demeanor. But whether she was making a subtle attempt to get away from the topic about which she felt the need to lie, or whether she really had been sidetracked in her grief by memories of her late husband's quirks, the exorcist couldn't guess. In any case, it got them nowhere. 

"Mrs. Himura," he began, in the cool tone of a lecturer, "the problem here -- at least the first problem that needs to be dealt with -- isn't so much your husband himself as the angry energy surrounding him. When someone is haunted by this type of energy -- which is called a shade -- it has a number of negative effects on them; headaches and an extremely bad mood are the most common. As you can see, Sano is currently suffering these effects because, for some reason, your husband has been haunting him for three weeks." 

He'd been ready to go on for as long as she remained silent until the entire situation was laid before her, but at this point she broke in. "Why?" She sounded a little desperate. "Why would he go to a complete stranger?" With an uncertain glance at Sano she added, "Or did he know you and just never mention you?" 

Sano, clearly beyond the ability to speak, shook his head. Hajime almost expected a countdown to appear in big visible red numbers above the spiky blue-gelled hair at any moment, and continued his explanation to Kaoru more quickly. "That's one thing we'd like to figure out. But besides the effects on Sano, just the fact that your husband is still here at all needs to be addressed. It's not healthy for anyone to stay in this world after death, and whatever is holding him here needs to be dealt with. 

"But the shade energy is blocking all attempts to communicate with him. We can't find out what exactly is holding him here if we can't talk to him -- and it's more than likely that some sort of communication is what he needs in order to move on anyway. So the most important point at the moment is why he's so angry. If we can dispel the anger, we can move on to the next step in this process. And the probability that his anger is related to the circumstances of his death is overwhelming." 

Her tears were in abeyance for the moment, and she looked faintly confused and equal parts wary; in her mind, the walls seemed to have become thicker and rougher than before. "OK," she said slowly and relatively levelly. "I can see why that would be important." 

Abruptly Hajime stood, and the movement made Mrs. Himura shy back toward her end of the bench. "I'm sorry to startle you," he said. "As I mentioned, we appreciate that you came out here at all to talk to us. Unfortunately, if you're not prepared to tell us the truth, I'm afraid you're not going to be any help to us." 

The barriers suddenly doubled, and her level of agitation increased perceptibly. He would never have deliberately put her back up like this -- it would have been so much more politic to continue the conversation on a non-threatening level and try to work the answers out of her -- but to his left he could sense Sano about to explode. What direction the young man's anger currently pointed didn't matter; he might do something everyone would regret after not much longer. 

"What--" Kaoru was saying, rising hesitantly from where she'd been seated, wringing her hands. 

But in favor of looping one arm through the straps of Sano's backpack, taking Sano's elbow in a firm grip with the other hand and pulling him away along the sidewalk, Hajime gave every indication of completely ignoring her.


	30. Seeing Red Part 19

The entire world seemed to exist behind a thick filter of intense red that fluctuated between the color of fresh strawberries and that of clotting blood. Sano recognized nothing around him, and didn't entirely know what was going on, like in a video game where half the time you were in a mirror of reality that only corresponded vaguely with it, and the controls had gone all twisted and frustrating. His body trembled; his blood pounded so noisily he couldn't hear a thing above it. He also didn't realize for some time -- he didn't know how long -- that he was moving. 

More than once he'd wondered what the anger would be like when it became ungovernable, but now (Unfortunately? He would have to decide later) his frame of mind disallowed analysis. Nor could he tell exactly what his status might be. Prior to this there had been a sort of scale or gradient by which he could measure the level of his wrath and its probable effects on his behavior, but this had risen right off the chart. 

He _was_ walking. With the tenacity of someone in shock not knowing what he clung to, he maintained his grip on the ghost, and every step he took jarred the anger in him as if he were filled with liquid to the brim and about to be shaken into spilling. The anger was all the worse in that it had no object, no rationale. Of course it had been that way all along, but this... he _needed_ an object... he needed a reason for this overwhelming rage. And why was he walking? Hadn't they been talking to Kenshin's wife, whom he couldn't decide if he was angry at or just angry _about_? Hadn't they been working on _dealing_ with this problem, not walking away from it? 

'They?' 

He turned. 

Through the film he saw Hajime, who looked distant and sinister and very red. Hajime, the disdainful jerk still pretty clearly more interested in some dead guy he'd never actually met than in Sano. 

Suddenly the wrath had an object. 

He realized Hajime had hold of his arm only when he wrenched free. Turning to face him, fists clenched... well, he _meant_ to demand what the fuck was going on, where they were, where Mrs. Himura was, and any number of other things... but the noise that broke from him had no words and practically no semblance of humanity. 

Hajime spoke, but to Sano he was every bit as incomprehensible as Sano had probably been to him just now. All that came across was the insufferable calm and indifference with which Hajime always seemed to treat him, and that caused a critical mass. Whether or not he could measure his current level, whether or not he could judge its probable effects, there had clearly been a line, and it had clearly been crossed. With a burst of increased tension that set his muscles creaking and straining, Sano charged the other man with flying fists. 

No impact came, but the next thing he saw, as he caught himself and whirled, was Hajime slipping quickly out of his jacket, which he dropped onto what appeared to be Sano's backpack standing on the grass, and loosening his tie. The bastard didn't even have the decency to look concerned that Sano had struck at him; on his harsh face appeared merely a sort of bored, almost passive determination to do what had to be done. It was maddening. 

The next blow met flesh as Hajime raised an arm to prevent it reaching its real target. The one after that went wide as Hajime retaliated into Sano's ribs with his left. Pain felt absurdly good at the moment, and there was a bizarre accompanying sensation as if he were slicked over with a liquid coating of anger and the punch had splashed a certain amount of it right off of him. But that was nothing compared to the astonishing, glorious release in tension when his subsequent attempt connected with Hajime's shoulder and seemed to deliver anger along with kinetic force. 

So tightly was he packed with rage that he felt he must literally explode and decorate the park with viscera and pressurized blood. He was so heavy and overheated, his movements seemed reeling and clumsy... and yet somehow, simultaneously, pointed and devastatingly impactful as he drove an elbow toward Hajime's neck and a knee toward his abdomen. And, though not precisely what he'd been going for, it was hardly any less a release of anger when neither connected and, in fact, Hajime half sidestepped and gave him such a hard hit to the shoulder that he spun past and crashed to the ground. 

After half a hot breath, barely enough to bring him the red scent of the grass beneath, Sano stood on his feet again, twisting to throw another punch at the man that seemed to have been waiting for the attack without taking advantage of the fall. This time Hajime's raised arm didn't move quickly enough to prevent a hit to his high cheekbone, and to Sano this felt so good that he let out a growl of satisfaction at the cracking contact. It wasn't unanswered, though, as, in a spray of released anger, that hard left of Hajime's slammed next into Sano's face in almost precisely the same spot. 

  
[Art by leb](http://lebzpel.tumblr.com)

Chaos roared in his hearing like a riotous crowd, and the waves of pain rippling from the point of that last hit temporarily affected his vision as well, but the driving impulse of _forward_ and _against_ kept him active. Hajime blocked him, blocked him again, hit him in the stomach, dodged and kicked and sent him sprawling a second time, but Sano was undaunted. His craving for the feeling of his knuckles against Hajime's face had not been satisfied by one instance. 

Through the haze of rage and adrenaline, as he struck out once more and was denied, he wondered vaguely how Hajime seemed so good at this. Hadn't he seen Hajime with a sword on more than one occasion? What kind of martial arts training did the bastard have? Had he ever mentioned? But attempting to remember things like that not only taxed Sano extremely in his current state of mind -- though, he thought, it became slightly easier as moments passed -- it was also dangerously distracting with fists flying, and probably what won him the next couple of blows to his chest. 

The diminution of his anger had been steady and gradual, but the realization that he was within measurable levels again struck him abruptly and startlingly. The result was a sudden winding down as if a power source had shut off, and he found the arm he'd raised for a punch sinking along with the adrenaline and the desire for further violence. His fist loosened as his wrist came to rest on Hajime's shoulder instead of progressing as he'd intended. Hajime's movement also ceased as he perceived Sano's changing state, and he was looking much less crimson. 

"Back, are you?" he wondered, and Sano rejoiced to find the words relatively comprehensible. 

His reply that he believed so emerged with no great smoothness, because he turned out to be panting and shaking like a drug addict, but Hajime, at least, evidently understood. He nodded, then gave Sano one final punch across the face. 

The unexpectedness of the hit increased the amount of anger it caused Sano to release, and he swore loudly as he sprawled back onto his ass on the ground. But he was seeing clearly now, hearing accurately, and, he thought, properly aware of his surroundings and situation for the first time in he didn't know how long. 

For example, he realized he and the grim-faced man standing over him weren't alone. Hajime's thoughtful frown was sufficiently engrossingly infuriating that it took some doing to drag Sano's attention away from it, but this was accomplished by the recognition of a group of kids loosely surrounding them: primarily the skate park crowd, past whom Hajime had probably paraded Sano to get here, and some of whom looked as if this was the best day of their lives. He doubted they often got to see two grown men (one in a suit!) beat each other up right in the park in front of them. Some still cheered, some laughed; a few, seeing the fight had ended, were analyzing it -- evidently Sano had pretty clearly lost -- while others stood in interested or even horrified silence. 

As the pain of the various instances of successful application of Hajime's fists began asserting itself, now without nearly as much satisfaction attached as earlier, Sano turned back to the source of this discomfort. Hajime had retrieved his jacket and folded it over one arm; he seemed unmoved by the seam at the shoulder of his shirt that had split or the dark spot already intensifying on his face. 

Sano remained quite angry, and was readier than not to turn and roar at the gawking kids if they didn't shut the hell up -- and Hajime had no exemption from this wrath... but the sight of those results of the fight summoned up a simultaneous sensation of almost affectionate gratitude. How many people, even in the pursuit of a significant source of interest in their career, would fall so readily into a fist fight with an non-paying client just to work off some excess anger? When Hajime held out a hand to help Sano up, Sano reached for it thankfully, and, upon standing, clasped it briefly in both of his own in lieu of a verbal expression of appreciation that probably wouldn't have come out very coherently at the moment. 

Beginning to be convinced the entertainment had drawn to a close, the kids were dispersing. This was for the best, since Sano had no clear idea where the ghost was, and he didn't want breaking up a brawl among a bunch of suddenly incensed little skaters to be the next thing he had to do today. 

"You're quite the thug," Hajime remarked, sounding unsurprised. 

Assuming his mental shields had taken just as much of a beating as his body, and that Hajime could therefore pick up on his memory of just how many fights he'd been in during high school, Sano didn't bother explaining, only said, "You're pretty damn good yourself," as he went to retrieve his backpack from the grass. 

Hajime also neglected explanation, which annoyed Sano since he couldn't read the exorcist's mind. Scanning the area, presumably watching the kids returning to their previous activities, Hajime straightened his tie in a seemingly unconscious movement. Sano too looked around, and found the ghost not far off doing its usual thing. He gave an angry sigh and addressed Kenshin at a grumble: "Fucking ghost making me randomly attack people... You're going to owe me big when this is over..." Then he frowned and turned back to Hajime. "Hey, did I hear you say the lady was lying or something?" 

"She was. Come on." The exorcist gestured. "It's not a good idea for us to be here much longer after that." 

Unsure what the gesture referred to, too annoyed to ask, Sano yet didn't mind following. Well, it _annoyed_ him to follow, but he did it anyway. 

Hajime began to explain, as they walked, about the finale of the conversation with Mrs. Himura that Sano had been too irate properly to mark. That Sano, under Kenshin's stupid influence, had essentially blown their only chance at getting information out of her could only irritate him further; and as soon as he had the gist of what Hajime detailed, he couldn't help breaking in with, "Big fucking waste of time today's been." 

Hajime made a thoughtful sound even as he raised a hand to the growing bruise on his face. "It might not have gone as badly as you think," he said cryptically, and walked on.


	31. Seeing Red Part 20

The things Hajime had discovered so far that could distract Sano from his rage were humor, food, and this new excitement over the possibility of geological pursuits. Of course the rage still needed to be released, but Hajime thought it was easier on Sano to insinuate outlets for it during more pleasant interactions. So, since they were essentially killing time again right now, he attempted to make use of at least two of the aforementioned three. And the restaurant across the street had a patio with a few outdoor tables, ideal for both a man with a ghost orbiting him and a man that wanted to keep an eye on the park nearby. 

Sano presented an amusingly contradictory attitude inside when a small internal war seemed to arise between his protest that Korean food was too similar to Chinese food for his tastes (a point Hajime would have to debate with him sometime) and his pleasure at being bought _any_ kind of food by anybody. But eventually they were seated and waiting for any number of things, and Sano looked as if he might return to fuming. To head this off, Hajime had been planning on introducing immediately the topic that had so engrossed them this morning, but Sano beat him in starting the conversation abruptly on another subject: 

"Hey, did you think she was pretty?" 

Though convinced Sano's reasons for asking this were serious and mostly not frivolous, Hajime had to reply, "Hmm... for a second there I thought you had something rational to say." 

"I _am_ being rational!" Sano insisted. "And I really want to know -- did you find her attractive?" 

"No," said Hajime bluntly, not bothering to add that he didn't really find _anyone_ attractive. 

Somewhat to his surprise, Sano grumbled, "You probably don't find _anyone_ attractive. So take it from me -- I'd call her a five. Maybe a six at best. Average, you know?" 

Hajime just raised a brow at him, feeling no desire to comment. 

"So why did Aoshi describe her as 'beautiful?' That's a pretty strong word that I don't think really fits her." 

"No accounting for tastes -- yours or Aoshi's." 

Sano snorted. "Well, if we're talking about Aoshi's taste..." He shrugged. "My gaydar could be off because he's such a total weirdo, but I never thought he was the type of guy who'd overexaggerate a lady's prettiness." 

Wondering how Aoshi's sexual orientation had come into this, Hajime asked, "So?" 

"So he was probably getting that impression from Kenshin." Sano gestured to the drifting ghost. "Because Kenshin's idea of his wife that Aoshi picked up on was that she's so beautiful because he still loves her that much." 

Now Hajime saw his point, and glanced also toward the ghost, which floated at that moment in the orbital spot about the most convenient for this. Unexpectedly, much sooner than he'd anticipated, a server appeared with their food, stepping right into the space his gaze occupied and startling him a bit. Though friendly and obliging, both her demeanor and the extreme curiosity she suddenly projected evinced her wonder at all the evidence of recent vigorous activity between these two customers; for this reason and others, their interaction with her wasn't entirely natural. 

When she'd left and the slightly awkward scene had ended, Hajime said, "So you think Kenshin's anger isn't aimed at his wife." 

"Yeah, exactly." Sano surveyed his plate with much more optimism than his earlier complaints could have predicted (probably because this was nothing like Chinese food). "If it was _her_ he's mad at, you'd think he wouldn't be giving off this impression of her being so beautiful when she's not." 

Hajime nodded slowly. "It's not a bad assessment, but you can't be sure." 

Pausing with chopsticks halfway to his mouth, Sano frowned. For a moment he remained still and silent, and finally shook his head. "No, I _am_ sure. Don't even start asking me how, but I'm sure. He's not mad at her. He sure as hell is mad, but not at her." 

"You're the one he's haunting," Hajime allowed. Actually he was inclined to believe Sano's assertion without any more evidence than had been offered, but still felt the need to raise one more point. "But doesn't his anger increase when he's around her?" 

Again Sano shook his head. "I thought so at first, but that's not it. He gets more _intense_ when she's nearby... he wants to go to her and do whatever... so then _I_ have to work harder to deal with him, so I soak up more of that shit... but I don't think there's actually any more of it just because she's around." 

Hajime nodded again, accepting the explanation, and ate his lunch in silence. The idea that the dead man's vicious anger might not be directed at his anchor was intriguing and probably important, but it didn't advance them at the moment. The truth about Kenshin's death remained the crucial information, and, while Hajime didn't despair of getting at it, the slow proceedings were somewhat annoying. 

Eventually, as even the nothing-like-Chinese food couldn't keep Sano's brow from darkening and his grip on his chopsticks from tightening detrimentally to his ability to use them, Hajime deemed the moment right to ask, "What will you need to do at school to get into geology?" 

Sano seemed surprised, and once again to be considering this apparent sign of interest, rather than solely a distraction technique, a gesture of friendship... and maybe he wasn't so far from the truth this time. And he didn't hesitate answering. "Well, like I said, I've already been working on getting all my general stuff out of the way... and I'm actually already in the first chemistry pre-req I'll need for the geology program. It's seventy-five credit hours, and then I can look into getting my masters somewhere else; there's some really good schools for it..." 

The topic wasn't interesting -- school plans never could be, except perhaps among relatives (and, Hajime thought, not frequently even then) -- and yet he found himself interested. An unignorable difference came over Sano's demeanor when he discussed this subject: the directionlessness, the waste of energy, the carelessness and frustrated frame of existence Hajime had begun to consider characteristic of him seemed entirely to disappear, to be replaced by a vigorous and unvarying determination. 

Of course he couldn't be certain how long it would last -- this whole resurgence of geological fixation might be no more than a flash in the pan -- but at the moment Hajime had to rethink or at least put on hold his earlier idea that Sano would probably eventually change his mind about this. And certainly this new sense of purpose Sano radiated was engaging. 

So too was the rapidity with which he'd gathered such thorough information Of course an ability to look things up online set no records for effectiveness -- though Hajime knew both the lack of internet conversance of a large portion of the population and the frustratingly unintuitive nature of college websites -- but listening to Sano's description of what he'd wondered and how he'd found out, Hajime was irresistibly reminded of the question-and-answer pattern of divination. 

As engrossed as Hajime wouldn't deny he was, this entire leisurely process of lunch and conversation had a purpose other than distracting Sano from his anger for a while or even proving to Hajime that his companion might not be as much a waste of space as he'd previously thought. And when Sano abruptly stiffened and scowled, simultaneously reminded of his anger by some sudden movement of the ghost and dismayed because he'd believed himself finished with the higher levels for the day, Hajime had to struggle not to smile. He enjoyed giving Sano hell, but had no reason (at the moment) to be grinning in the face of his misfortune... yet he _did_ like knowing he'd been right about something. 

Suspicious and angry, Sano scanned for the reason behind the ghost's change in motion and attitude, but that reason had already moved from his line of sight. And by the time he'd stopped craning his neck and turned back to a proper position in his chair, Mrs. Himura had come through the restaurant and stood before them on the patio.


	32. Seeing Red Part 21

In a funny mixture of hesitation and bravado, Kaoru pulled out one of the vacant chairs, took a seat, and looked back and forth between the two men. She hadn't said a word yet, but Sano thought he could feel her eyes on his facial bruises as palpably as if she'd been using her fingers. A glance at Hajime showed him studying Kaoru as intently as she studied them, and it would have made sense to assume the exorcist wanted to determine whether the woman felt ready to tell the mysterious truth he was so sure she'd been withholding... but for some reason Sano had the impression Hajime actually examined her features trying to decide on her level of attractiveness. Sano stood by his five. 

Kenshin, meanwhile, struggled to approach his wife, which meant all the effort Hajime had expended to get Sano back down to a manageable level of anger would be negated as Sano had to restrain the guy all over again. 

The deep breath Kaoru eventually drew in preparation for speech partook of the same mixture of boldness and uncertainty as had her motions sitting down, but her voice was steady as she said, "I may be ready to believe you." 

"Oh?" was all Hajime replied. He seemed to have been expecting this; jerk could have mentioned that. 

"I followed you when you walked away. I saw you fighting. I think it's pretty obvious that either what you're saying is true, or at least you believe it is." 

"Or we're thorough con artists," Hajime added. 

"Or that," she agreed, evidently rendered a little easier by the acknowledgment of this possibility. 

"Yeah..." Sano looked at her askance. "Not to argue against ourselves or anything, but seeing us fighting... doesn't really prove anything." 

She sighed. "No, I guess not. But I already wanted to believe you. No, that's not what I mean. I don't _want_ to believe my husband is haunting you and can't pass on, or that he's so mad he's making you try to beat up your friend... but I think I _do_ believe you. Because what you were saying before?" She turned to Hajime. "About the usual effects of having an angry ghost around? That _happened to me_. 

"I don't know why it didn't start until December -- late December, almost January -- when he died in November, but it was just like you described. I had non-stop migraines, and I was just _so angry_ all the time... I had to send Kenji, my son, to my parents' house practically every day because I was afraid I was going to take it out on him. Sometimes I took it out on people I met -- people at stores, and friends, and even my own parents sometimes -- and on _things_, like the furniture and my car, and..." She was beginning to look distraught again. "I thought I was just angry about what had happened, but now that you've mentioned what ghosts do to you..." 

Sano had actually opened his mouth to repair her conflation of ghosts with red shades, but decided that being pedantic at this point might do more harm than good. Besides, his anger was swiftly growing again, and he probably wouldn't be able to say it without sounding inordinately unkind. 

So after a moment or two she went on uninterrupted. "Eventually I noticed it starting to fade, but it's only about a week and a half ago that I've really started to feel like myself again. But I realized it _was_ probably about three weeks ago that it _started_ fading. Because that was when he left and went to you, wasn't it?" 

Sano nodded as she looked at him again. 

"Probably because he couldn't get through to you," Hajime mused, "and got tired of trying. Why he went to Sano, specifically, we still have no idea, but it seems logical for him to have gone to _someone_ else when he found he wasn't getting anywhere with you, who can't see ghosts." 

"Is this something that happens a lot?" Kaoru wondered next. "Do lots of people get haunted by other people's husbands?" Sano considered this question a sign of the authenticity of her stated readiness to believe. 

Hajime shook his head. "What I usually deal with are shades, which are just leftover emotions, not people. Real ghosts are very rare. If you were wondering what my part in all of this is," he added in much the same tone he'd used for the earlier con artist comment, "I'm essentially just waiting around to talk to your husband in order to get some more information about ghosts." 

Kaoru gave a confused half smile. "I wasn't wondering; I assumed he was paying you." She glanced from one of the men to the other and back. A new interest showed in her face, but Sano thought she was forcing it in order to avoid thinking about something else. And when she asked, "Are there a lot of exorcists?" it sounded like someone making polite conversation. If she needed this as a strengthening routine in order to move on to a more difficult subject, Sano didn't want to discourage her... but he was once again becoming angrier with every moment he spent near her as Kenshin strained against his hold, and her delays could only worsen the situation. 

Hajime seemed all patience, however. "I'm currently the only professional exorcist in this city, which is why I moved here. For this population, one tends to be enough -- though there are certain types of cases I have to use a specialist for." 

Though she listened with ostensible attentiveness, Kaoru yet seemed caught up in something else she would rather not think about. "So the leftover emotion things keep you busy enough," she asked somewhat hastily, "to make a living?" 

Sano rearranged his sore body in the chair. He'd picked up his cloth napkin for something to do with his hands, and now realized he was pulling it badly askew. It didn't seem in danger of tearing -- yet -- but long stretch-marks indicated where he'd been tugging at it. 

"More or less," Hajime was answering with a glance at the younger man. "But listen, Mrs. Himura: you need to understand what it does to Sano to have you sitting here." 

She too glanced at Sano, with dark eyes and a frown, then searched the air around him for a moment before returning her gaze to his angry face. Her brows contracted and she swallowed. Softly she said, "I'm just trying not to think about the idea that he's really here when he shouldn't be." It was clear that by 'he' she didn't mean Sano, though she continued looking at him as she spoke. "Ghosts are really rare, you say... so I guess only a very unusual situation can turn someone into one." Her voice sank even farther. "No wonder he's so angry." 

Seeing the tears welling again in her eyes, Sano wanted to share with her his theory that _she_ was not the object of Kenshin's wrath, but he couldn't without making her the object of his. He wished Hajime would bring it up, but _he_ obviously believed doing so would destroy the progress they'd made toward getting at what they needed to know. 

"Why should he be angry at you?" the exorcist asked quietly. 

Kaoru shook her head rapidly as if trying to rid herself of some clinging aura (and probably failing). Again she looked from one man to the other. After a deep breath she said, "You were right. I wasn't telling the truth before." 

Hajime's gaze intensified, but he said nothing. 

Kaoru's hands on the table clenched as she looked down at her white knuckles as she had earlier. "If I believe you, I have to tell you. I don't want to believe you and I don't want to tell you... but I feel like I _have_ to believe you, and I _do_ want to tell _someone_. I'm so tired of this..." As she looked up again, her expression confirmed this last statement, and the breath she drew in sounded much the same. "I will tell you... but you have to promise not to go to the police." 

_She really **did** kill him_, Sano sent to Hajime, not so sure he was joking this time. 

Hajime nodded slowly in response to the thought, but his expression did not change. "I can't promise you that," he told Kaoru gravely. "We want and need to hear your story, but if there's been a crime I feel I have to report, I will report it." 

She gave him a long look, then eventually turned to Sano. "And you?" 

Sano forced himself to answer, though none too pleased with the growl in which his words emerged. "I could promise, but it wouldn't matter: this bastard reads my mind, so he'd get at it anyway." 

The woman seemed taken aback, though whether at the roughness of the statement or the revelation she was seated next to a mind-reader Sano couldn't guess. Her eyes dropped, and for several moments she sat in tense silence staring at her hands. Finally she reached a decision, as evinced by the determined hardening of her expression and the set of her shoulders. "All right," she said. "I'm probably crazy, but I'm going to trust you. I'll tell you everything."


	33. Seeing Red Part 22

With the type of resolution that feels it might as well get a necessary evil over with as quickly as possible, Mrs. Himura stood from the table and announced, "But not here. Come sit in my car where people can't hear me." 

Her car, Hajime reflected, was probably the safest of any relatively private places she could have chosen for a couple of strange men to accompany her to, but that they really weren't psychopaths or con artists was also fortunate. Perhaps personal safety didn't mean much to her anymore. 

Though Sano hadn't eaten anything since the woman had appeared at their table and necessitated he start holding onto the ghost again, still he cast a disappointedly annoyed glance at what remained on his plate as he stood. Nothing to be done for it; the service here seemed very quick, but Hajime didn't want to wait for to-go boxes; he already planned to force payment for the meal on whichever employee he ran across first inside. 

Finished with that, they started back toward the park in tense silence. More than one of them glanced around in some discomfort: Kaoru was probably concerned her father would see them and make very understandable trouble; while Hajime worried that, after the fisticuffs earlier, he and Sano might be personae non gratae in this location at least for a while (or perhaps a little _too_ gratae among the former spectating kids). Sano himself, evidently, was too busy keeping a firm hold on both the ghost and his own rising temper to think much about either issue. And his lack of attention eventually proved justified when they reached and entered the Himura car without event. 

Gripping the steering wheel behind which she'd seated herself as if craving something to cling to, Kaoru let out a sigh both defeated and preparatory. Then, for a second time that day, she began speaking at a rapid pace as if she feared she wouldn't be able to make the confession if she didn't talk fast. 

"I killed my husband," was how she started. "And I don't mean that the way people do when they're trying to find some way to blame themselves for something they didn't want to happen, no matter what I said before about keeping the car that day. I mean I shot him twice in the head with a Taurus .38 Special." 

She fell abruptly silent at this point, and Hajime didn't need to be able to read her mind to know she awaited their reactions. And perhaps she needed those reactions -- the surprise and the horror she expected -- to contribute to the order she was trying to set up for herself to regulate her emotions and situation... but unfortunately, Hajime and Sano, already having guessed at what she'd just confessed, could not provide. Hajime merely nodded, and Sano's scowl did not alter. 

"It started in October," she finally went on, perhaps taking revenge for their lack of interested response by not specifying what 'it' was. "I don't remember the exact date, but I know it was late in October because we'd just bought Kenji a Halloween costume when we were out shopping one night, and the next morning he was asking me questions about Halloween. Somehow he had it confused with Christmas, and he thought if he dressed up that meant he needed to give away presents. He was deciding who was going to have which of his toys, and I thought it was so sweet... just like his dad..." 

She'd begun rambling again, apparently. Hajime thought a point _was_ being progressed toward, but Sano obviously couldn't tell. He shifted uncomfortably even more than before in the back seat, which he'd occupied without a word when Hajime had taken the front. 

"Then later that same day," Kaoru went on, "a note appeared out of nowhere on my refrigerator. It said something like, 'You have a very generous son. If you want him to live long enough to give away his toys for Halloween, follow these instructions exactly: burn this note and cut up an apple for him to dip in peanut butter.'" 

_Now_ she got the reaction she'd previously been anticipating. Sano gave a surprised growl or grunt, and Hajime's brows went down over narrowed eyes. This news came as an unexpected shock, and the eventual outcome of the story after such a beginning seemed unpleasantly guessable. 

"Apples in peanut butter is one of Kenji's favorite snacks, and anyone could have known that. But the conversation about his toys on Halloween I hadn't told anyone about yet. But at first I thought the note must be a practical joke, even if it wasn't very funny, because you just don't think about that kind of crime-drama thing actually happening in real life -- at least not to _you_ or anyone you know. So I looked around for someone maybe hiding in the house, but it wasn't a big house... Kenji thought it was a game and helped me look; I was so shaken up, I couldn't get him to sit still in the kitchen and wait for me. 

"Then I thought I'd call Kenshin and see if he had something to do with it, even though it obviously wasn't the _kind_ of joke he would do... but when I reached for the phone, the doorbell rang. I thought whoever it was at the door would probably have the explanation, but when I got there there was no one there, just another note. These were _typed_ notes, by the way. Like, _printed_ notes. This one said something like, 'It's a better idea not to tell anyone about this. No one will answer the phone anyway.' And then it went on telling me about exactly what Kenshin was doing -- it even mentioned the specific breed of dog he was working with right then -- and the exact movie my parents had just walked into. 

"My first thought was to lock myself and Kenji in the bathroom -- because it had no windows -- and call the police, but there were too many problems with that idea. What if I couldn't grab the phone and get in there in time? What if they really _were_ watching Kenshin and my parents at the same time, and weren't just bluffing to scare me? How could I convince the police I really was in danger? And what if, by the time the police got there, whoever was leaving these notes had just disappeared?" 

Hajime might have expected, in the telling of such a tale, even more tears and incomprehensibly choked diction than before, but found it otherwise. Though there was in her voice a faint echo of the terror and desperation she must have felt on that first day, the full course of events she detailed must eventually have inflicted upon her a sense of helplessness beyond activity and bordering on numbness, and this last sounded most prominently in her dull pronouncement, "So I burned the notes and cut up an apple for Kenji." 

Another silence fell, a heaviness and reluctance for this tale to progress any further toward its inevitable conclusion... but in glancing at Sano, Hajime guessed they had only a few more minutes before another intervention would need to take place. "And then?" he prompted. 

More, apparently, out of weariness than anything else, Kaoru sighed. "There were several notes during November, mostly to make sure I knew whoever they were really were watching me and my family and that I really would do whatever they asked. I don't know what kind of ninja was putting these things in the places I found them, but they must have been pretty amazing, because I never saw anyone, and the notes kept appearing in places like on the refrigerator or the bathroom counter, and once in my jewelry box on my dresser. And they never asked me to do anything unusual -- nothing that wouldn't be completely natural for me to do, but what I might not necessarily have done just then if they hadn't told me to. 

"And I don't know what kind of network they had watching my husband and my parents, but they kept giving me little hints about what they were doing -- things I always found out later were true, just like my parents really _were_ at that Amelia Earhart movie that first day and Kenshin really _was_ assisting on a min pin spay. It was... it was so freaky... I got so scared whenever I found out that something one of the notes told me was true, and each time was worse than before. 

"They were conditioning me -- I could see even then that that was what was happening -- but I didn't know what for. They were getting me ready for something by making sure I was good and scared and ready to do whatever they asked. You can't know what that's like..." Her voice sank to an almost contemplative murmur; the horror, presumably, had either passed or taken such deep hold that it had been assimilated into normalcy, and only this dullness remained. 

"Not knowing who's watching you when or where, or when you might do something wrong or what they might do then. Or how to protect the people you love, or even if that was even possible... And imagining all sorts of horrible things and not knowing whether I was exaggerating or what. I got so paranoid I had no idea what was realistic and what was me overreacting. 

"I tried not to show it, but that was completely impossible almost right from the beginning, because it was like I became a totally different person." She gave a faint, frustrated huffing noise. "Between that month and the trauma after and all the anger in January and February, I'm surprised anyone even recognizes me anymore. 

"I got into the habit of trying to stay between Kenji and the window, no matter what room we were in, even though I didn't really think that would do any good. And I didn't see any way we were going to survive this, even with me doing every little thing they told me. We were hostages, was really what we were, and do you know what hostage survival rates are like? 

"I didn't dare do anything that might even look like I was trying to find out who these people were or trying to do anything about them; no matter where I went, I assumed they were watching through crosshairs. I didn't want to..." She cleared her throat. "I wouldn't sleep with my husband. Of course he was desperate to know what was wrong with me -- not just because of that, I mean, but because of the entire way I was acting. He tried everything... he tried asking in every way he could, and guessing even the craziest ideas, and bringing me presents because he thought I was upset with him... god, his last month alive, and he thought I was upset with him..." This tangent brought on the tears the main story hadn't been able to prompt, and Mrs. Himura was for a few moments overcome. 

Assuming the tale was going the direction Hajime believed it must be, he perfectly understood this behavior -- in fact, he thought, it bordered on miraculous she could talk about this at all, or function in general. She was a tougher person than he'd believed; he should have realized it from the mere presence of natural mental shields strong enough to keep him out apparently indefinitely. 

He had no time to ponder this, or to attempt in his inexpert way to offer some kind of consoling statement that might be able to draw out the remainder of what she had to relate. For it was time to see to Sano again.


	34. Seeing Red Part 23

Sano didn't recognize the motions he used to get out of the car, didn't feel the handle under his fingers or hear the sound of the door closing, barely even registered the parking lot around him. He knew only the huge, hot, overwhelming certainty of what the end of Kaoru's story must be. He was so angry he couldn't think; he was so angry he practically couldn't breathe. He couldn't quite call it worse than before, because it was _different_ than before, but he couldn't quite say anything, because all that would come out was an inarticulate roar. 

Sure, it was no surprise, after all the speculation (serious or otherwise), that Kenshin's wife had been his killer... but Sano had expected as the cause a concealed callousness, or a moment of lost control during an argument, or some kind of infidelity or other marital intrigue... If he'd had any idea threat and coercion had been involved... He raged at himself for ever having joked about it. 

The sight of Hajime's bright red figure emerging from the passenger side of the unfamiliar red car was the first event or part of his surroundings to log coherently (relatively) in Sano's head, and he felt his hands clench immediately into tingling fists. Of course he still raged at Hajime, for all the same reasons as before -- the aloofness and evident disinterest, the blame Sano laid on him (unfair, even now he knew) for the slowness of proceedings and the fact that he still had a maddening ghost attached to him -- but this time he also recognized, somewhere deep in the molten rock of his thoughts and emotions under Kenshin's influence, that Hajime wanted to help him, that Hajime was willing to do anything necessary. This time, as Sano staggered toward him with intentions every bit as violent as earlier, he did so with nearly as much needy hopefulness as anger. 

It went as before: Hajime encouraged him off behind one of the other cars in the parking lot -- a big old SUV, Sano vaguely classified it, which could provide at least a little privacy -- and essentially beat him up until Sano had reached a more propitious frame of mind. And this time, when yet another hard-knuckled blow from the exorcist opened the return doorway to rationality, when Sano staggered backward to stumble (not for the first time in the last couple of minutes) over the curb that bordered the lot on this side and sit down heavily in the small strip of grass between that and a tall fence, he ran a hand across his face and let out a frustrated sigh. His statement that he hoped they wouldn't have to go through this again today lacked about half its intended words. 

Hajime snorted but said nothing. Both shoulders of his shirt, Sano noted, were now split open, and at least one of the buttons across his chest had torn through its hole; his jacket he must have left in Kaoru's car, since it wasn't visible anywhere around. The newest bruise on his face induced simultaneous guilt and satisfaction in Sano. 

Calming his panting breaths and trying in vain to smooth away his scowl, Sano growled, "Thank you." 

Returning to their interviewee after not too long, Sano in some weary dismay at the feeling of the anger still growing as he continually had to restrain Kenshin, they found Kaoru staring at the steering wheel with a dry face but despairing eyes. These she turned only briefly on Sano as he resumed his place in the back seat; then she returned quickly, with a wince, to what she'd been regarding before. 

"He's mad at me," she whispered. "Kenshin. He wants revenge. He isn't -- wasn't -- isn't that kind of person, but... but I think anyone would react like that. I killed him... me, the person he should have been able to trust most... I took everything from him... and now his son is being raised by a murderer. Of course he would have to do something about that. Anyone would." 

"Then he's a fucking dick," Sano growled, "and he can damn well just stop haunting me right now, because _fuck_ that." 

Neither of the others responded directly to this largely incoherent statement. Instead, Hajime said in what Sano believed he intended as a sympathetic tone, "What's the rest of the story?" 

After the same preparations for unpleasant speech they'd seen her make a couple of times already today, Kaoru continued. "These notes had me so tense and miserable and worried that I didn't even blink when they told me they needed me to kill someone. The note said I'd never hear from them again if I did it, and I was so relieved at that thought that at first even murder didn't seem like too much. That's how far they'd pushed me. 

"Obviously after a while I was horrified by what they were asking me to do, but even then I couldn't see any way out of it, and I think I accepted the idea and how helpless I was a lot more easily than I should have. It's something to remember, I guess... how easy it is to make someone a murderer. It's not a certain type of person; it's _any_ type of person in the right situation. You'd never look at me and think, 'She seems like someone who'd shoot a man twice in the head,' but here I am a murderer. 

"Kenshin and I had agreed I wouldn't have any guns in the house until Kenji was old enough that we could count on him not hurting himself by accident. Obviously whoever they were knew that, because they told me where to go to find a gun to use for the job they wanted me to do: they left it in a box behind a dumpster in one of the streets on the way to where they wanted me to go. It was -- I told you -- it was a Taurus .38 special, snub-nosed, hammerless, with a -- god, what does that matter? _I'll_ remember every little detail of that gun for the rest of my life, but you guys probably don't need to know." 

"I'll admit," said Hajime, looking at her with slightly raised brows, "that description didn't actually mean anything to me." 

"Sorry." It was half a laugh and half a sob. "Not everyone's a fan of guns. Including me, now. But I've been shooting since I was little... actually, I've always wanted to be a policeman. Not much chance of that now, is there?" 

As Kaoru took a moment to get hold of herself as she admitted to a lifelong dream thus shattered, Hajime filled the near-silence with the query, "Is that why they chose you for this? Because you've had the practice and are familiar with guns?" 

She shook her head slowly. "I've had a lot of time to think about all of this -- _god knows_ I've had a lot of time to think about all of this, even if I wasn't thinking very clearly some of that time -- and I think that was only the reason they had me do it the _way_ they did. If I wasn't a good shot and familiar with guns, they'd've had me poison him or something. And if they just... if they just wanted him dead and not cared who did it, they already had whoever it was who was sneaking notes into my house, who I'm sure would have... would have done it better than I did anyway." 

"So you think this was a deliberate form of torture or revenge?" Although Hajime seemed to be interjecting at this point to allow Kaoru another moment to calm her misery, his tone also had the steel-cool determination of someone that loathes what he's heard and has plans for doing something about it. 

With a nod, a deep breath, and an obvious effort, she elaborated. "They wanted me to do it because -- I'm just sure of this -- they thought it would be the best way to hurt us both. They didn't care whether I got caught or what happened afterwards... they were completely anonymous the entire time, so even if I did get caught and I told everything, the police wouldn't be able to get at them and I'd probably still be charged with accessory to murder or something. 

"I think I did better than they thought I would, though," she added with the hint of a bitter smile. "I followed their instructions about the route to take and the best position to be in to wait for the victim, and I wore what they suggested, and I got rid of the gun exactly how they told me. They promised to provide cover fire in the street, and they even did that. It went so smoothly, it was just like I'd practiced it, like I'd been doing this forever." 

"_They_ had probably been doing this forever," said Hajime. 

"Did you..." Sano could barely get the words out. "Did you know who..." 

"No," Kaoru whispered. "Do you think I would have -- do you think I _could_ have done it if I'd known? Even to protect my son, even to save my own life, do you think I would have been capable of..." 

"And it was a dark little back street and he had his hood up," Sano finished for her in a tone as low as hers but far more rough. "I bet you never even saw his face." 

"I didn't even _know_ until the phone call came. But... but even not knowing who it was... from the moment I pulled the trigger for the first shot, I felt sick... and cold... and just... terrible like I can't even describe... and when I saw him fall on his face, I knew I'd done something I could never take back. And even thinking about how I'd done it to save Kenji didn't help, because I knew I'd turned into something I..." Whatever she said next was completely unintelligible in a storm of body-wracking sobs. 

Sano didn't know how much more of this he could take. Exhausted and aching all over, he doubted he could handle another fist fight today... and yet the anger grew even more quickly than before as he watched the suffering of this poor woman and thought of whoever had put her through this torment. He wanted to find them and do to them the most horrible things he could come up with, force them to endure what Kaoru had endured. His heart hurt even more than his body, and the horror of the circumstance she described was overwhelming. 

Eventually, as her sobbing diminished, Hajime asked, "And did you get any more notes?" When she shook her head, he nodded. Even from the back seat, Sano could make out the set of his jaw and his brow, and he realized with an odd sense of clarity and certainty that Hajime entertained much the same thoughts and vindictive desires he did. On the topic of what should be done about Kaoru's abusers, evidently, they were in complete accord. 

A long period of brooding wordlessness followed, during which Sano tried to decide how much longer he could stay in this car and how he could comprehensibly express, through this rage, his resolution and pity. Finally, though, Kaoru spoke again, apparently determined to finish what she'd started even if her story had rather fallen apart halfway through. 

"So you can see why it makes perfect sense for Kenshin to be so angry. I'll do whatever he wants me to, whatever he needs to see happen so he can move on. I'll shoot myself in the head if he wants. If it weren't for Kenji, I probably would have done it already."


	35. Seeing Red Part 24

Finally, Sano managed to say what Hajime knew he'd wanted to for some time: "He's not mad at _you_. I swear to fucking god on whatever you want me to swear on that it's not you he's mad at." Of course with the way he said it, it sounded as if _Sano_ was mad at Kaoru, but by now she must understand his situation. 

She remained utterly still for a long moment, body frozen, expression locked, apparently not even breathing. Then, finally, letting the air out of her lungs in another uneven sigh, she shook her head. "I don't think I can believe that." 

"Mrs. Himura." Even Hajime's own voice sounded a little angry. The object of his wrath remained distant and unfocused, but that didn't alter the emotion. "Whoever was sending you those notes was the murderer of your husband. There's no specific word for what they did to you, but you were the victim, not the criminal. If your husband has the intelligence of a fly, he's aware of that. He's obviously angry not at you, but at the people who forced you into this situation." 

Again she shook her head, but this time said nothing; it seemed she had no ability to argue against a point of view she would greatly have preferred to espouse and yet was convinced, down to her bones, could not be true. 

Though not the type to wish to be anything besides what he was, there were times Hajime couldn't but be aware that other states of being, other states of mind he could never attain, would work more effectively toward certain ends. 

Having been coerced, the woman was innocent, or at worst guilty only of prioritizing the life of the son for whom she was responsible over that of, as she'd believed, a total stranger. Perhaps a higher social consciousness would have dictated a complete refusal to commit murder under any circumstances, but, inasmuch as doing so might have been considered equally murderous -- in that case of a dependent -- he could not condemn the decision she'd made. 

She hadn't, as she believed, become evil; she'd had evil thrust upon her, and it was a shame she couldn't feel more secure in her blamelessness. Not that it came as any surprise, human nature being what it was. If he'd been a different kind of person, he might have been able to reassure her; as his personality stood, he just sat still and silent in her passenger seat while she wept. 

That her mental walls remained as impenetrable as ever made a point of interest that vied with the misfortune of the situation for his attention. It was often all or nothing with the untrained; she'd probably spent the months since that first note fighting so hard against the idea of discovery, which would endanger the life of her son, that even now, when she'd confessed all, she couldn't relax her defenses. They'd become a default. 

Sano, on the other hand, flashed like a beacon in the back seat: he projected pity and horror, in addition to the usual ever-expanding rage, so clearly that his radiating emotions almost colored the air; though he'd become capable of keeping Hajime from what he didn't want detected under many normal circumstances, the emotional ups and downs of this day had rendered him perfectly easy to read. It was about time to get him out of this setting. 

Somewhat abruptly Hajime said, "Reporting this to the police wouldn't do anyone any good. We need to find out who might have had a reason to do something like this to you and your husband. Do you have any idea?" 

"No," said Kaoru. "No, not at all." 

Hajime had expected as much; with all the time she'd already mentioned she'd had to think about this, she would certainly have come up with an answer if one had been available. 

"Everyone has people who don't like them," she went on helplessly, "but I can't think of anyone who would hate me that much. And Kenshin... there were things about his past I know he never told me, but going through his legal documents and records hasn't found anything." 

Sano, suddenly distracted slightly from his anger by wonder at the thought of a long-term relationship involving withheld information or even deceit, added curiosity and some disapproval to his lineup of noisy emotions. 

Completely disinterested, for his own part, in how healthy Kaoru's marriage had been, "I'm glad to hear that you've been looking, at least," Hajime said. 

"What else could I do? I haven't heard from them since then, but I feel like if I leave town I might get their attention again... but if I had _any_ idea who they were... I couldn't investigate them in any way I could think of, but nobody would be suspicious of me looking at my husband's records. But there's nothing there that gives me any ideas." 

Hajime nodded. "If you find anything that might help..." From the pocket of the jacket that lay across his lap he withdrew a business card. As he handed it to her he added, "And we'll use the resources we have to look for information as well." 

She also nodded, staring at the card with only the second or third smile he'd seen on her face. Like the previous, it was faint, and held no trace of happiness or entertainment. He thought it stemmed from bemusement at the circumstance of such a dryly professional business card for an exorcist. 

"Thank you again for coming to talk to us today," Hajime said formally. "We'll keep you updated." 

As he slid slightly sideways and reached for the door, she looked over at him abruptly. Her movement and the expression on her face both seemed surprised, as if she hadn't realized her conversational companions were leaving so soon -- or perhaps that they were leaving at all -- and in her eyes he made out the desperation of someone that, having just found a source even of slight relief from her pain, shied from returning to the latter yet or even doubted she could. It must have meant a lot to her to be able to unburden herself the way she had. 

Hajime stilled. Little comfort as he knew she was likely to take from anything he could offer, he had to say something; Sano was in no state to do it, and something had to be said. Eventually he decided on, "Remember that you had no choice. Try to believe your husband isn't mad at you. Hope that when we find out the truth it will help you both." 

The act of steeling herself to go on with business as usual showed in the movement of her body, and sounded in the long, slow breath she drew. And her voice was perfectly steady as she said, "Thank you." 

Outside the car after that intense conversation, Hajime suddenly found himself wanting a cigarette, as he occasionally did when his emotions were aroused. But he pushed this urge firmly away and began crossing the parking lot toward his own vehicle. "I'll drive you home," he told Sano. 

"It's not far," the young man growled. "I'll just walk." 

"And harass everyone you meet on the way? Don't be an idiot." 

Without any further protest Sano gave in -- there'd been no reason to refuse in the first place besides his angry desire to be contrary -- but as he got into Hajime's car with the ghost firmly in tow, he still scowled. Hajime believed his level could be dealt with verbally instead of through further violence, though, which relieved him since they were both by now a little ragged. 

But before Hajime could start in on a calculated barrage of insults so as not to leave Sano in a worse state than when he'd found him, Sano had a comment of his own to make: "That was good." With his crossed arms and his bruised and glowering face, the words sounded amusingly out of place. "It was good," he went on very gruffly, "that you tried to make her feel better. I mean, it _didn't_ make her fucking feel better, but... it was good that you tried." 

Oddly, surprisingly, Hajime found himself... pleased... by this somewhat inarticulate expression of approbation. He wouldn't have thought Sano's opinion could mean much to him on this or any topic, yet his spirit distinctly lifted. Therefore it was ironic that he replied with the most cutting insult he could come up with. And he wondered, possibly for the first time, to what extent Sano understood he did this mostly to deal with the anger rather than out of any real desire to tear him down. 

It was not, indeed, very far to Sano's apartment, though they would have reached the place quicker if its resident had been in any fit condition to give proper directions. Still, reach it they did, eventually, and Hajime took his initial look at Sano's 'kinda shit' home. He'd mostly expected this: old, disrepaired, undoubtedly cheap, creeping toward complete disrespectability. He circled the lot until he located Sano's car (whose general appearance matched that of the apartment complex with entertaining precision), and pulled into the space next to it. 

Several moments had passed since either of them had said anything, and now Hajime gave Sano an assessing look in continued silence. With a slight nod as he decided Sano had probably resumed or at least neared his standard levels, he reached out and hit the voice command button next to the radio. "Call Chou," he ordered. 

Sano, who had been about to open the passenger door, subsided with a grunt to listen. 

To the surprise of both men (and possibly of Chou himself), the police officer actually answered after only two rings. "You wouldn't be shit without me on this case, would you?" was his somewhat taunting greeting. "I don't remember the last time you called me this much. Or is this a new ghost today?" 

Sano snorted, but Hajime lifted a hand to silence him. As funny as he thought it would be to see what happened if he let Sano voice his developing opinion of Chou, he couldn't risk alienating his police contact just now. "No, still the same case," he responded calmly. "Listen. Kenshin Himura was probably just made to _look_ like an innocent bystander during the gunfight that killed him; he might actually have been a deliberate victim. Do you have any more information about him? Anything that might have connected him to the gangs involved, or anyone involved with them?" 

Chou made a reluctant noise like a verbal headshake, but promised to look into it. "I'll get back to you probably in the morning," he added, "since I still got shit to do." 

"Thank you," Hajime replied. 

With another noise, this one a sort of 'Whatever,' Chou hung up. 

Sano shook his head, opened his mouth to speak, then shook his head again and said nothing. 

"I'll call you when I hear from him," Hajime offered as Sano reached for the handle. 

"Good." Sano stood from the car and winced as he slung his backpack from the floorboards onto his sore body, then caught the door halfway from the closure he'd jerked it toward. He bent and regarded Hajime through it as if for a proper goodbye, yet still had nothing to say. In fact his mind boiled so furiously that Hajime couldn't even pick up a definitive parting thought; it _had_ been quite a day for him so far, and probably wouldn't get much better now they were, yet again, waiting on a phone call. 

And unexpectedly the thought drifted across Hajime's consciousness that they didn't necessarily have to wait _separately_ for that call; they could just as easily return to his house, tease the cats, discuss the situation, drink some beer, order pizza again once dinner time rolled around... 

But Chou wasn't likely to call until tomorrow, and Hajime had better things to do than babysit an angry non-paying client until then. 

Just as if Sano had been reading _his_ mind, he nodded abruptly and, backing away, closed the door. And the exorcist was left to watch him stalk toward the building, dragging the apparently unresisting Kenshin behind him, in a mixture of emotions and a solitude he suddenly felt more keenly than he thought even the events of the day entirely accounted for.


	36. Seeing Red Part 25

Very rarely did Sano wake before his alarm went off, or refrain from grumblingly curling into a tight blanket ball and going determinedly back to sleep if he did, but, as Kaoru had suggested yesterday, an unusual situation could lead to rare happenings. Today he lay in bed observing the slow growth of faint light in the room, noting the stiff soreness of his entire body, watching Kenshin circling with a placidity that belied the fury surrounding him that could so easily be transferred to Sano. 

Not that Sano required superfluous external anger to madden him. The mere fact that he had a stranger so close, so undismissable, twenty-four hours a day was enough to keep him just as consistently annoyed even before the supernatural influence. He felt like he'd become the star of a reality show against his will; he felt like he had a chaperone, a jailer, in this unknown man over a decade his senior whose eyes were, perhaps, on him non-stop. 

Waking up from angry dreams to find himself trying to tear his pillowcase apart felt especially stupid and frustrating when he knew he had an audience. Doing anything in the bathroom embarrassed him hugely. The state of his apartment from one moment to the next was almost enough to raise a blush, but the idea of straightening up in Kenshin's presence smacked of catering -- caving! -- to the presumed tastes and desires of someone he didn't want around in the first place. And it wasn't necessarily appropriate to be thinking about the sex life of a brand new and as yet not-terribly-close acquaintance, but Sano couldn't help making comparisons between Kaoru's stated reluctance to sleep with her husband when she'd known she was being monitored and his own change in intimate personal habits when he'd realized he was being haunted by more than just a shade. 

Not that the inconvenience of his situation, great as it was, could even begin to compare with the misery of hers. Of course he needed to be free of Kenshin in order to get on with his life, and no consciousness of disparity between his predicament and someone else's could change that, but, even haunted, that life could certainly be a lot worse. Maybe if he kept _that_ thought in mind and stopped concentrating so much on his own difficulties, things would go more smoothly. 

So what if he was irrationally, sometimes destructively angry all the time? So what if some guy he didn't know was watching him every time he took a piss? So what if he'd developed a crush on someone whose sexual orientation he couldn't parse? At least he'd never been coerced into killing his husband. 

He sat up and looked at Kenshin, turning his head to follow the ghost's progress around him. He really _had_ been thinking a lot about himself, hadn't he? Kenshin, central to this affair, had barely registered as more than a problem to be solved, a nuisance to be gotten rid of by whatever means -- certainly never fully as an individual with driving needs and memories and (as Sano should have good reason to know) human emotions. 

What thoughts and feelings might Kenshin be entertaining now? How had that intense meeting with his wife affected him? What did he really want accomplished? Was he eager to move on, or would he prefer to remain a ghost? 

Angrily, Sano sighed. How unfortunately easy it had proven to ignore the humanity of someone so unreachable in every way! There'd been no picture of Kenshin in the email report; Sano didn't even know what he looked like, beyond that apparently 'good in women's clothing' was part of it. He definitely knew nothing about Kenshin's personality, except that Kaoru thought him pretty much the nicest guy in the world -- which, even ignoring the probable bias, didn't mean a lot. And though he could _guess_ the dead man wanted to tell Kaoru he didn't blame her for what she'd been forced to do, he couldn't be _sure_. 

None of these reflections helped or pleased him: overall, an annoying way to start the day. He wondered when he could expect Hajime to call. How early did that bullshit cop go into work? Sano lay back down and closed his eyes, but after a moment rolled onto his stomach and reached over the side of the bed. Not wanting to repeat the experience of a few days ago when he'd been too disoriented coming out of sleep to answer a call in time, he'd left his phone on its charger on the floor within arm's length. Now he unplugged it and dragged it into a teddy bear position as he curled up on his side and rearranged the blanket he'd completely disarrayed. 

He didn't sleep, but neither did he think profoundly; he just lay there, nonspecifically angry, conscious of every bruise Hajime had given him yesterday, listening hard for any noise from the phone cradled against his chest. Eventually, though, as the morning became more visible, he did call in sick to work again. That he endangered his state of employment thus was an unavoidable fact, which made him feel sorry for anyone that legitimately got sick for two days in a row, but he had a feeling he would need the free time today. And he was satisfied with his effort at not sounding too irate talking to the opening manager. 

Next, giving up on doing nothing any longer, he tried to choose an appropriate ringtone for Hajime's number, but this frustrated him because all he had to work with was the pre-loaded lineup of generic jingles, and none of them seemed to fit. A few songs came to mind that would be very appropriate -- a couple angry, one plaintive -- but to buy them as ringtones cost something like two dollars each. He was pondering the issue, considering whether or not he should authorize the expenditure, and on the verge of giving in, when Hajime actually called and spared him the decision (for now). 

"Kaoru was Kenshin's second wife." 

So busy trying to decide whether it augured promise or disappointment that he now apparently rated a complete absence of greeting just like that dumbass policeman, Sano barely took in the meaning of this initial statement, and responded only with an inarticulate sound. 

"His first wife, Tomoe," Hajime went on, "died in a car accident in Fresno back in '99 after he was married to her for less than a year. Kenshin was driving that car, and speeding at the time, which made the accident worse -- she might have survived if he hadn't been going thirty over the speed limit." 

"OK," said Sano slowly. "That sucks..." 

"Her maiden name was Yukishiro. Sound familiar?" 

It did, actually, but Sano couldn't place it. Something he'd heard in the news at some point not too long ago... 

"Enishi Yukishiro," Hajime filled in the silence, "was her younger brother." 

That name was even more familiar, but Sano still didn't quite have it. "OK, I give up," he admitted at last. 

Hajime helped him out with, "CEO of U.S.Seido?" 

"Yes!" said Sano as he remembered, but then sobered as he finally recalled the news reports he'd been trying to dredge up. "But didn't he die, like, last year?" 

"Just at the end of last year," Hajime confirmed, "near the beginning of January." And he paused to let this sink in. 

"Right when... right when Kaoru started having red shade problems?" Sano had no idea what it meant, but it didn't sound like a coincidence. 

"What would you say to the theory that the anger we're dealing with isn't Kenshin's at all?" 

Sano had been in the act of shoving his blanket aside in order to rise, probably to start pacing in some agitation, but as Hajime's suggestion hit him he stilled, and gradually sank back to rest against the wall. "Shit," he murmured. "That would..." So simple an idea, yet not even a hint of it had ever crossed his mind. "Yeah..." He'd never heard of a ghost being affected by someone else's shade, but, honestly, how much did he know about ghosts in the first place? "That's a..." If this Enishi guy had still somehow been angry enough a decade after his sister's death to plan the kind of bullshit that had gone on last year, his anger must be both prolific and tenacious... and wasn't that exactly what they'd been noticing about this shade all along? 

Sano's trailing remark finally finished with, "...really good... theory..." Despite the inconclusiveness implied by this last word, a certainty was growing in his mind as if being built up by an outside source, and that source an authority. He _believed_ this idea. Soon, he felt, he would be past the point where he could entertain any other. 

Hajime apparently awaited an end to the contemplative, almost shocked silence, and it came as no less of a shock to Sano to realize the exorcist also awaited a more definitive response from him... that Hajime had proposed this as if _Sano_ were the authority here. In a way, being the one haunted by Kenshin and most closely connected with the shade in question, he _was_ the authority... but he wouldn't have expected Hajime ever overtly to recognize that. So it was with a sudden and unexpected warmth in his gut, and as a result none of the cautious restraint he might otherwise have used, that he said, "Yeah, that's exactly what's going on. When that guy died, he left some kind of _huge_ shade behind, and it's been wrapping around Kenshin ever since and keeping us from talking to him." 

"I always thought there was a little insanity in that shade." Hajime sounded incongruously pleased, and Sano had to grin a bit at this further evidence that the exorcist reveled in being right about things. "To get revenge ten years later..." 

"Yeah, seriously." 

In a more businesslike tone suggesting they would definitely want to retouch _that_ branch of the conversation later, Hajime went on, "But that's not all the information Chou had for me. The rumors that Seido is practically a stateside yakuza are true, apparently -- in addition to their legitimate business, they're more than suspected of money laundering, smuggling, and other, less pleasant things. Chou wasn't happy to find out they might be involved in this. According to him, the police don't touch Seido unless they're absolutely sure they'll come out on top of the transaction." 

"I don't think _I'm_ happy finding out about this," said Sano, now a little uneasy. "I don't really want to get involved with any yakuza either." 

"I'm not exactly ecstatic about it myself," Hajime admitted. "But this is significant progress. Seido sometimes makes use of one of those gangs that provided the cover fire when Kenshin died, and you may have heard about that Seido secretary who was a person of interest in the investigation of Enishi's death because of unusually aggressive behavior that started the same day Enishi died." 

Nothing of this latter story had reached Sano, and he admitted as much in some surprise. 

"I'm sure you _did_ hear that Enishi's death was eventually ruled suicide, so this secretary wasn't charged with anything. But apparently he's been on a leave of absence ever since because he's too angry to get any work done." 

"I'm an asshole for saying it--" and in fact Sano had a hard time stifling a grin as he did so-- "but it's kinda nice to know I'm not the only one whose life's been fucked up by this." Then, quickly repenting his choice of words, he added, "I mean, obviously Kaoru and Kenshin in the first place, but still..." He cleared his throat. "So you think the next step is to find this secretary guy and get the shade out of him?" 

"And see what he can tell us about Enishi and his grudge against Kenshin," Hajime confirmed. "I'm sure he'll be glad to answer at least some questions; when I talked to him just now, he seemed desperate to find any solution to his current problem and very ready to believe he was being haunted by his late boss's anger." 

"You talked to him _just now_?" Sano had eventually followed his original plan of rising to pace his apartment, and at this point he stopped on the kitchen linoleum and threw up his free hand. "God, you are so disturbingly efficient!" 

Hajime sounded smug as he replied, "Well, unlike you, I like to actually _do_ my job." 

Although he hoped that in general he wasn't becoming immune to the very useful power of insult from Hajime, Sano gloried in the feeling of camaraderie between them. 

"Don't think it was extremely easy, though," Hajime went on somewhat regretfully. "It took every corporate connection I have and all my personal charm to get someone at Seido to put me through to this man Gains, and he was so angry it was hard to get anything rational out of him." 

"'Personal charm,'" Sano echoed, and whether his accompanying snort sounded more amused or derisive he wasn't sure. He _was_ pretty sure Hajime had set that one up deliberately, though. 

"Anyway, if you want to come with me to meet him, which I assume you do, be ready for me to pick you up in half an hour." 

"Oh! Yeah! OK." Sano could only be glad at Hajime's efficiency -- and also that he himself had been awake enough fully to appreciate this whole conversation. Some unusual happenings were better than others. 

"See you then," was Hajime's goodbye. 

As Sano's hand holding the phone fell to his side, he stared at the ghost drifting through both hallway walls in its pattern around him. He still struggled to think of Kenshin as an individual and not an inconvenience, but this next step might help. Sano shook his head as he returned the phone to its charger, and headed toward the bathroom for a quick shower. Having done so yesterday, he hadn't planned on showering today merely for the sake of a work shift, but for the sake of sitting in Hajime's passenger seat he suddenly felt the need. Ghost or no ghost.


	37. Seeing Red Part 26

  


"You look like one of those metal brain teaser puzzles," Hajime announced as Sano slid into his passenger seat. 

Sano glanced down at his weird pants with a frown, but the expression gradually turned from angry to thoughtful. "You mean the kind where you have to figure out how to get the rings apart from the other part or whatever? Yeah, I can see that." 

"I don't know what kind of security measures they're going to put us through at this place, but if there's a metal detector we may have a problem." 

"Where exactly are we going?" the startled Sano asked. 

"Seido headquarters." And at his companion's blankness, Hajime mentioned the part of town where this was located. 

"Did you bring your sword?" Now there was suspicion and defiance in Sano's tone. 

"Yes, but an exorcist's sword is relevant to an exorcism. Those pants are not. Neither are all those earrings, to be perfectly honest." 

"Yeah, like it's such a huge pain in the ass for you to be perfectly honest about anything that--" Breaking off abruptly, Sano sat back with folded arms and a twist to his mouth that was turning it gradually into an angry-looking grin. "So you want me to take off my pants, huh?" he growled with deliberate suggestive slowness. 

Though not particularly practiced at dodging flirtation, Hajime didn't see this instance as terribly difficult to get around. "And the boots," he said sternly. "And all the metal jewelry. Don't you own any sane clothing?" 

Sano looked even more irritated than before. Instead of answering the question, he made an angry noise, got out of the car, and walked back across the parking lot and into the apartment building. Hajime watched in the rear-view mirror, wondering if he should perhaps have worded that differently. The possibility of Sano's clothing combining unpleasantly with the postulated metal detector did exist, but any opinion about said clothing on Hajime's side (apart from the one he'd already expressed, that Sano's choices in dress made him look as if he was trying to relive his teenage years) did not. But it was too late now; any pleasant atmosphere that had arisen during their phone call earlier was lost, probably beyond recall. 

The Sano that returned was a bit of a shock, and Hajime found that maybe he _did_ have an opinion after all. Stripped of jewelry, in a plain t-shirt, dark jeans, and tennis shoes, Sano looked a lot less like he was parading a past he couldn't let go of, and a lot more... respectable. More _real_, perhaps. Even the spiky hair, considering that whatever gel he'd used today didn't add any unnatural color, was acceptable; even the bruises, in this context, could more easily be presumed the results of some unfortunate accident instead of signs of a reckless and wasteful life. Sano was striking, suddenly, in a way he'd never been before, which was ironic when his usual attire seemed to scream for attention. 

He was also still clearly annoyed with Hajime. He didn't respond to the older man's placid, "Better," only donned his seat belt in brief motions and looked out the window as they started off. And this annoyance seemed a little different from the usual low-level anger that was the result of normal time at home with Kenshin. Was it because Hajime had refused to flirt with him? Well, he was just going to have to get over that; Hajime simply didn't flirt. 

Nevertheless, the exorcist thought they had a lot to talk about, given all the information they now possessed. There were, he believed, several connections to be made and theories to be turned over, some of them before they reached the Seido building. So when their drive had proceeded in perfect silence for three or four minutes, he asked directly, "What are you thinking about?" 

Whatever it was, Sano seemed to pull himself from it with some difficulty and then face some uncertainty as to what to say. He was shielding, but not quite to the point where, when he replied, "Whether or not we're getting in way over our heads," Hajime wasn't conscious that the statement wasn't _quite_ an accurate answer to his question. It probably hadn't been far behind Sano's actual thoughts, but it had definitely been no more prominent than secondary. 

Only a brief glance in Sano's direction could Hajime spare at the moment, and this told him nothing. In the interest of a legitimate discussion that was not about Sano's emotions (whatever they might be), he decided to let the matter of concealed thoughts go. "You didn't hesitate to come, though." 

"No." Sano's tone was dark. "But I'm a little pissed that it looks like the guy behind all that shit Kaoru went through's already dead. I was kinda hoping to kill him myself." 

Aware that this was hyperbole (barely), Hajime replied only, "You're '_a little_ pissed?'" 

Sano gave a bitter laugh and fell silent again. 

"You're probably less pissed than Enishi was, anyway," Hajime admitted by way of transition. 

"Seriously," Sano agreed in a tone half marveling and half irate. "If he's really our guy, why the hell did he wait ten years to get revenge? And how was he even still _that mad_ after so long?" 

"His secretary may be able to answer that." 

"Or he may not," said Sano darkly. "At least I _hope_ the whole stupid group wasn't in on torturing some poor woman." 

"It's an interesting point," Hajime mused, "that the wife has probably suffered more from this than the husband who actually killed Enishi's sister." 

"The wife who _replaced_ Enishi's sister?" Sano interjected doubtfully. 

Hajime acknowledged this decent point with a slow nod even as he went on with his own train of thought. "Though that might only have been the case because Kenshin actually died. They -- _he_, if it was Enishi -- may not actually have expected Kaoru to succeed in killing her husband. Kenshin might have suffered more if Kaoru had just appeared to be upset with him, eventually threatened him with a gun, and refused the entire time to tell him why. Or, if she had decided to try to get out of that somehow, Enishi always had the option of murdering the son. No matter how it ended, the situation was likely to result in the destruction of Kenshin and Kaoru's relationship, possibly legal trouble, possibly the death of their son, and probably psychological trauma for whoever survived. It was a win-win situation for whoever set it up, since there didn't seem to be any way for Kenshin and Kaoru to get out of it together without suffering in one way or another." 

"It still seems like there might have been a better way to make sure Kenshin was the one who really suffered, though, and leave Kaoru and the kid out of it." 

"Well, as you just pointed out, Enishi may have had some kind of grudge against Kaoru and the kid too." 

"If Enishi really did all this." 

"It seems like a logical assumption at this point, but we'll have to wait and see whether the anger Gains is dealing with is the same that's surrounding Kenshin -- assuming Gains is actually haunted. That should tell us fairly conclusively whether Enishi is our culprit." 

"What is this Gains guy's actual job in this fake-company-yakuza-thing?" 

"Bridgestone Gains," Hajime replied, giving the name the very precise enunciation he felt it deserved, "was Enishi's administrative assistant, and I get the feeling he's on an influential level with the--" 

Here Sano interrupted with, "_Bridgestone Gains_?" in a voice completely altered by skepticism and amusement from his previous surly growl. "You sure he's not the executive officer of the yakuza's designer men's clothing line or something?" 

Hajime actually laughed out loud, glad to find that Sano agreed with him on this point. 

The good humor of that moment was unfortunately short-lived, as their conversation returned soon after to the topic of Enishi's presumed revenge and long-lasting vindictiveness, as well as the haunted secretary (regardless of his name) and the possibilities of the day. They didn't have time for a thorough canvass of all the information and all the inferences that were now available, but they managed to discuss enough to satisfy Hajime before they reached the Seido building. 

The wrathful Gains, on the phone, had not been entirely coherent, but had at least struggled commendably to arrange things to Hajime's convenience in visiting; he'd offered a place in the headquarter's gated multi-level parking complex for the duration, but Hajime had declined as politely as possible. There was something distasteful to him about having his car swallowed up in the darkness of a yakuza garage, so he opted for meter parking on the street and the building's main entrance. On being acquainted with this plan and the reason for it, Sano commented on the irony of Hajime refusing to leave his 'mafia-looking car' in the care of yakuza; Hajime, who'd never considered his car particularly mafia-looking, just rolled his eyes. 

"Not that I don't feel you." If this choice of idiom on Sano's part was another attempt at flirtation, it was certainly delivered in as unflirtatious a tone as he could possibly have used: his voice was heavy with uneasiness as the two of them left the vehicle and set off to cross the street toward the looming Seido building. "Of all the ways I never thought I'd finish up my Spring Break..." 

Hajime nodded grimly. "The alternative is to give up." 

Sano threw him a sidelong look. "You know, _you_ don't have to be here at all. I'm not paying you... Kaoru's not paying you... _Kenshin_ sure as hell isn't paying you to be here..." 

Just as grimly, Hajime smiled. "Giving up isn't actually an alternative for me." By now it wasn't merely the prospect of talking to a ghost; after hearing Kaoru's story, even after seeing how Kenshin's presence was affecting Sano's life, Hajime could not back out of this. Solving this type of problem was what he'd become an exorcist for. 

Mimicking the smile, though his was a bit more contemplative, Sano murmured, "No, I guess not." And it was as clear as if it had been stated aloud that he appreciated both Hajime's determination and the support it led to. 

Inside the main entrance, the appearance of the Seido building was nothing too unusual. The mirror-like marble floor, the lofty ceiling, and the man-sized urns overflowing with greenery (which probably required a discrete employee's entire day to care for) seemed a tad excessive for the entry to the main office of a business purportedly -- and, according to Chou, at least 40% in reality -- devoted to data analytics, but the décor, if a trifle overwhelming, was at least tastefully put together. But the _feeling_ of the place had Hajime instantly more on his guard even than he'd already been. 

The hushed awkwardness of everyday activities being conducted in the presence of death, the wariness of an already uncertain situation steeped in the possibility of betrayal, the awareness that less than half of what went on here was in any way aboveboard and that it would be hugely inconvenient both to the collective and to the individual at fault should the wrong desk be crossed, the tension of change and unusual circumstances and the accompanying strain of not quite knowing how to deal with them -- all of this and more Hajime picked up immediately upon entry, and at first he could only see a single person. 

Sano too had stiffened and begun to scowl as he'd taken his first step across the shiny, veined marble. But there was no time for further discussion of how little they liked being here, for the receptionist at the semi-circular marble-topped desk had fixed them with a polite but very studious look. "Good morning," she greeted. "Are you here to see Mr. Gains?" 

Hajime nodded, stepping forward toward her. This woman had a mind as tightly guarded as any he'd expected to find in such a place, and he guessed more than sensed that she was well armed where he couldn't see. Her eyes, however, never once moved toward the sheathed sword in his hand, or even the bruises on his face; instead she just gestured and said, as courteously as before, "Dae-hyun will take you up." Her smile was convincingly warm. 

The area to which she'd gestured was a large corner of the room that hadn't been visible, behind a sort of wall of potted plants, until they were near the desk; and it was inhabited by a man whose presence had previously been impossible to observe, or else who had just entered by the door they could now see in the rear wall. This person held out his hand in a welcoming fashion and gave them a smile just as professional and almost as friendly as the receptionist's. 

"Good morning," he said as Hajime and Sano moved toward him. "Mr. Gains let us know you were coming. I'll carry your sword upstairs." 

This Dae-hyun, though short, was built very solidly beneath his tailored suit, and seemed extremely competent and unhesitating, in the manner of a bodyguard, beneath his veneer of politeness. Hajime handed over his nihontou without protest. If he and Sano were in any danger here, the temporary lack of that archaic weapon would not make much difference. 

Smile unwavering, Dae-hyun gestured again, this time toward the door through which Hajime could see a deep-carpeted and oak-wainscoted corridor. "After you; please turn right." Obediently, Hajime took the several strides down this hall necessary to reach an elevator whose doors were oak-fronted to match the walls around them, and stopped. A keycard, he noted when Dae-hyun joined them after having waited a couple of steps to follow, was required to access this conveyance, and after that had been accomplished they embarked, in a silence that was no less tense for being so polite, on an upward journey toward the fifteenth floor and Bridgestone Gains.


	38. Seeing Red Part 27

The air here tasted angry. Sano doubted anyone not as precisely attuned to it as he was would have been able to sense it until they were much closer, but _he_ was aware by the time the elevator had ascended only a few floors that they were in the right place. Somewhere in this building was shade energy -- to which they were drawing closer and closer -- that matched exactly the energy that had been plaguing Sano for the last month. Its influence strengthened with every moment, and he was bracing himself for what must come. 

"We're perfectly happy to assist Mr. Gains wherever it's most convenient," Hajime was remarking to Dae-hyun in that creepily polite tone Sano had heard from him once before, "but maybe you can tell me something I didn't want to ask him on the phone: what is he doing at his office when he's in such bad shape? I understood he was on a leave of absence." 

Dae-hyun, who resembled nothing so much as a smiling brick, nodded his understanding of the question and replied in a pleasant tone like something from a training video. "Besides being a very valuable and highly respected member of our organization, Mr. Gains is also an artist. He has a studio here in the building where he spends much of his free time." 

Yes, having this somewhat ambiguously ranked assistant to the CEO readily available must be very convenient to the organization, Sano reflected. As he couldn't quite decide whether he would rather have come to this tense and unnecessarily posh-looking office than visit a possibly paranoid and definitely irate yakuza secretary at his own home, Sano couldn't quite decide either how he felt about the existence of this so-called studio. It made no difference; he was already here. 

But for a few more totally fake (but very well delivered) remarks between Hajime and Dae-hyun about the sparkling success of U.S.Seido, the elevator ride was conducted in silence. Sano didn't have to watch the numbers to track their approach of the fifteenth floor; he could feel the angry shade more strongly with every passing moment. He couldn't imagine how much was up there for him to be so aware of it at this distance, but he feared that stepping from the elevator at the top was going to be like entering a war zone. 

At what point Hajime had noticed the shade and its effects on Sano, the latter couldn't guess, but the exorcist had taken half a step, made just a slight shift in the way he was standing, that seemed to indicate solidarity, and for that Sano was grateful. Hajime really didn't have to be here, but here he was, ready, as ever, to do what he must. Sano just wondered what that would end up being in this situation. 

He also wondered if and how Kenshin would react to this volume of shade energy. The ghost hadn't caught Sano up yet, which was more of a relief than anything, but if he followed his usual pattern he must eventually; what would happen then? Did Kenshin know whose anger it was? Did you find things out after death that you hadn't known before? Or perhaps Kenshin _had_ known before he died of the possibility of his brother-in-law's seeking revenge, and was held in this world by the guilt he felt at never having warned his wife. 

Such speculation was useless at the moment. Sano just tried to block himself off against absorbing any shade energy before it was absolutely necessary, took a deep breath, and watched the elevator doors slide open. This time their escort led the way instead of gesturing them to precede him, and, as the presence of the huge red shade more or less hit Sano in the face from in front of him to the left, it was a significant relief that Dae-hyun took them to the right. The awareness of the shade didn't greatly diminish by the time they'd reached the door they were apparently to enter, but Sano was still glad not to have to confront the thing immediately. 

In response to Dae-hyun's knock, the heavy, paneled door was jerked open almost at once, and the visitors got their first look at Bridgestone Gains; the fact that the man in front of them was most definitely haunted by the same shade as was Sano verified his identity even before Dae-hyun's polite greeting could do so. Other than the red energy rising from him, as his precipitous opening of the door expended some of it, there was nothing terribly remarkable about him except an apparent vigor and athleticism of movement perhaps a little unusual for a man evidently in his late sixties. 

"Come in," ordered Gains curtly, interrupting whatever was being said by Dae-hyun. The latter didn't appear at all put out by this, just handed Hajime his sword and walked away with smile and imperturbability intact. Sano listened for the sound of the elevator as he followed Hajime through the door in front of him, but heard nothing. So this floor, at least, was being guarded as long as they were here, even if Dae-hyun wouldn't actually be in the same room. He supposed it was no surprise. 

What _was_ a surprise was that same room. Sano hadn't even begun to take the term 'studio' seriously, and if he had would have envisioned easels and canvasses and paints. This mixture of workshop and laboratory, fitted with sinks and gas jets in a couple of high tables, scattered with a number of somewhat disturbing-looking instruments such as might be used by a sculptor, and decorated by several much more disturbing-looking products of these tools, was nothing he would have expected even if he'd bought the description of 'artist' for the man they were here to see. 

The figures -- sculptures? -- though they had indentations and curves reminiscent of certain more extreme contortions of the human body, were yet not exactly human in shape, and Sano would need a little more time than he had right now to decide what he thought they actually looked like. Just the glance he was allowed at the moment, though, before turning his attention toward Gains, told him that the most disturbing thing about them was not so much their shape as their composition; whatever they were made of didn't seem to be stone or clay, but something a good deal more... fleshy. The light in the room definitely hit them the same way it did the skin of the three people present. 

"Mr. Gains," Hajime was saying in his obsequious tone that, compared with the creepiness of this room, was positively reassuring at this point, "I can see just by looking at you that it's a good thing we came, if you'll excuse me saying so. I'm Hajime Saitou -- we spoke on the phone -- and this is my partner Sano Sagara." 

Hajime had a gift for making remarks that knocked Sano right out of whatever else he was thinking or feeling, if only for a moment. _Partner??_ It was staggering, and if Hajime hadn't wanted Sano to react to it with the full-body jerk and whiplash glance in his direction he gave on hearing it, he should have warned him beforehand. 

Examining them both briefly up and down with a scowl, and certainly not missing Sano's start, "It looks like that's as true as it is believable," Gains replied in a sneering tone. Scorn, Sano had found, often arose from an impulse to hurt that was itself a product of anger... and this was a very familiar anger. Only imperfectly did he recognize it, however, so caught up was he yet in the unexpected effort of trying to quell the tingly feeling that had suffused him at the idea of being any kind of partner to Hajime. 

"And this is a data analytics business," the exorcist said dryly, "whose CEO committed suicide." 

It was well done, Sano thought. He'd already been trying to counter the aforementioned tingly feeling with the stern reminder that Hajime's introduction of him as a partner would have been less complicated and perhaps more dignified than explaining who he actually was -- but now, in implying something between the two of them he didn't want to mention outright, Hajime had managed to create a sort of parallel of concealment that must help to raise fellow feeling. He'd essentially suggested to Gains, _"Let's work together on the understanding that we each know the other has a secret, and are both politely not prying."_

However angry he might be, Gains evidently understood, for he nodded sharply. "Well, and what can you two do for me?" he asked irritably, crossing wiry arms whose liver spots were bared by the rolled state of the sleeves of his black button-up. "It's been almost three months since Enishi's 'suicide;' if he's haunting me, how do you get rid of him?" 

As always, the uninitiated assumed ghosts when all that really plagued them was shades. Unless, Sano reflected with a slight shudder, Enishi's ghost was hanging around just like Kenshin's was. Maybe he was in the next room, hovering in the midst of his anger, waiting for Sano to bring Kenshin to him and stage a final, dramatic, undead confrontation or something. 

But that couldn't be. One ghost was rare enough; the statistical likelihood of encountering two at once must be practically nonexistent. Sano shook himself back into sense and shelved these thoughts alongside the daydreams he fully planned on entertaining later about being Hajime's partner. Which left only the overwhelming urge to ignore the current conversation, and instead examine this crazy room, to try to repress. 

Hajime was reassuring Gains with, "Sano can extract the angry energy from you, so you'll be able to go back to your normal activities." And he proved that he too was curious about the contents of the room in which they stood by throwing a quick glance around at it as he spoke the last words. Sano's contribution was a nod; he doubted it would be any kind of problem to absorb all the shade that had Gains so tetchy -- or at least it wouldn't be difficult to accomplish... what might happen afterward, if there was enough of the stuff to give Sano another critical mass, he didn't know. 

"Do it, then!" Gains ordered, glaring at Sano. Actually he seemed far less angry, in general, than Sano had expected; he must have found a way to expend some of the shade before they'd arrived. The disarray of the equipment in here, as if someone had inflicted upon it a very bad mood and then only imperfectly straightened up, might explain that. 

"First," Hajime said smoothly, "tell me: what's over there?" He gestured with the hilt of his sword off to their left, past a couple of painted folding screens that were distinctly out of place in here but that probably looked congruous enough from the other side; between them, Sano could see through to what appeared to be a sort of lounge done up in a mixture of oriental styles. It was beyond this space, probably past the far wall he could only get a limited glimpse of from this angle, that the feeling of red shade was emanating most strongly. Hajime wanted to head straight for the source of all this trouble, and, unpleasant as Sano feared it would be, he couldn't but agree. 

Gains jerked his gaze in the direction Hajime indicated, and scowled. "I assume you mean Enishi's office, since you can see the kètīng perfectly well for yourself." 

"Enishi's office," Hajime repeated thoughtfully, ignoring Gains's grouchy tone (and not bothering to ask what a kètīng was even if he, like Sano, wasn't entirely sure). "We'll need to take a look around in there." 

"Nobody but me goes in there," Gains snapped. "Not until we have a new CEO." 

Hajime's tone was as smooth and soothing as before as he answered, "And I'm afraid that's the reason you've been so angry for so long. You've been picking up more angry energy every time you go in there, and probably just by spending so much time here in your studio next door." 

Again Sano nodded his concurrence. Somebody or other would have been affected eventually by the shade under any circumstances, but Gains had hastened and worsened the process by hanging out so close to it ever since Enishi's death. And his leave of absence, rather than helping him recover, had probably actually exacerbated his condition by giving him so much more time to spend in his studio. 

At Hajime's words and Sano's nod, Gains's face twisted into an expression almost of rage, and Sano wondered whether this was because he didn't like to be dictated to by strangers, or because the aforementioned appointment of a new CEO -- something that had obviously already been a long time in the works -- was a touchy business that caused him to get defensive about the old one's office and effects, or because he'd been closer to his late boss than they'd had any idea. But he didn't strike at either of them, as Sano had half expected, nor even lash out verbally. "All right," he said instead, teeth gritted. He turned abruptly and moved toward the other half of the room and the room beyond, pulling a keycard from the pocket of his black slacks as he did so. "But you can't touch a damn thing in there."


	39. Seeing Red Part 28

  


Everything Hajime had been thinking about -- his curiosity regarding Gains's exceptionally strange art, his residual amusement at having thrown Sano so completely off-balance with the 'partner' remark, even his ongoing underlying concern at being in a yakuza headquarters dealing with someone that could probably have them killed with a single word and seemed hateful enough to do it -- all of it crowded right into the background of his mind and huddled there, subdued, as he took his first step into Enishi's office. 

Whether or not this room contained the matching antique furniture, expensive ornamentation, and relatively classy mixture of eastern and western decorating he'd expected, he had no idea. He couldn't see a thing through the almost pulsing brightness of the wall-to-wall shade that filled his vision like a roiling acidic mist. It blinded him, pounded at his magical senses, battered his consciousness with anger and pain. He'd never encountered a shade anywhere near this large and powerful, and even having made what he thought were logical mental preparations based on what he'd known it must be like beforehand, he could never have been prepared for this. 

"_Holy **shit**_," came a murmur, quiet but intense, from behind him. 

"Sano, get back," he ordered, taking two more slow steps onto what felt like firm carpet or perhaps a rug atop tile. "Stay outside the room. I'll deal with this." 

"What, are you trying to be a hero all of a sudden?" Sano, still right behind him, growled. "This is way fucking more than--" 

"You're already absorbing it." It was getting to Hajime too, if the angry tone in which he'd just said that was any indication, and _he_ wasn't even the one that was deliberately attuned to it. He attempted to speak rationally as he went on, "You'll need to deal with Gains after all of this is gone, which you won't be able to do if you stay in here much longer." 

"Ah, fuck," Sano muttered, and retreated. 

"Mr. Gains," Hajime said next, "it would be better if you waited outside the room as well." 

Gains sneered, "And leave you to poke around in here? I think not." 

"I'm not here to dig up secrets on your organization," Hajime snapped. "But if you want to stay, get into a corner and be ready to move if I come near you." Lifting his sword as an indication of the danger this situation posed, yet he didn't wait to see if Gains followed his instructions -- indeed, he _couldn't_ see anything of the sort -- but unsheathed the weapon. The blade was an intense red, a bloody-looking contrast to the bright white that surrounded him, but he hadn't needed that to tell him what he was up against. 

Falling into the pattern of breathing he'd found worked best for the use of kendo as exorcism, Hajime closed his eyes to the whiteness and probed outward with his mind. If he'd had any doubt that this astonishing shade belonged to the former inhabitant of this office, he would have been convinced upon noting that the energy was mostly confined to the acknowledged limits of the room; shades, which were not technically inhibited by physical barriers like walls or windows, generally only adhered to them in reflection of a human's awareness of a space -- and the person most aware of a room's boundaries was usually that room's primary resident. 

As strong as he'd anticipated, the shade was also even more insane. Though it wasn't quite fair to maintain that, in order to keep up this level of anger for an entire decade, someone would _have_ to be insane, and though Enishi must have functioned rationally in most areas in order to head up an organization like this, there had definitely been some madness there, which had accompanied the anger in becoming this shade. Hajime concentrated on the defeat of both. 

Earlier Sano had remarked that he wished he could have killed Enishi, and Hajime rather had to agree. Perhaps this was a foolish way to feel about someone he'd never even heard of until the man's death, but he thought the desire must help him in this situation. He didn't know what number and variety of evils Enishi had perpetrated as the head of a criminal organization; all he was familiar with was Kaoru's story -- and the fact that Enishi had been her tormenter wasn't 100% verified even yet... but he was certain that Enishi's death had done little but good for the world. 

And now the dissipation of his shade, at Hajime's hands, would do a more specific good for a smaller subset of the world. For Sano, whose entire life was practically on hold. For Kaoru, who'd been forced to commit an act foreign to her nature. For Kenshin, about whom Hajime really knew nothing. Even for this strange Gains man about whom Hajime _cared_ nothing. 

With this knowledge and desire strengthening his intent, focusing all his will on breaking up and destroying the shade, he opened his eyes and thrust his sword into the nearest intense patch in the fluctuating mass of angry energy. 

It was a shock, stronger than when he'd last exorcised any of this shade by a much greater margin than he could have expected merely by reckoning proportions based on size at the source. It almost left him stunned, and only by holding onto the awareness and determination previously fixed upon did he keep it from completely overwhelming him. Had he been a disinterested party here to perform this professional service for a client, he might have been defeated in this first moment, so it was lucky for everyone concerned that he was not so disinterested. If it could be called luck. 

When the patch on which he'd focused finally gave up its attempt to out-will him, wavered, and dissipated, he swept his sword out to the right after a second segment without pause. His movement toward a third was slower, but he thought the overall intensity of the shade throughout the room was fading. 

The work was exhausting, and the clash of wills that comprised it was like nothing else he'd ever experienced. He thought perhaps it could be compared to the process of two people attempting to outmaneuver each other in an organization just such as this, using all their cunning to get the better of each other and staying on their toes every moment of every day in the fear of betrayal over the course of long months or even years -- but all packed into the space of a few minutes. As he'd never done any such thing, however, he couldn't be certain. 

His head ached, and he felt ready for a long rest by the time the furniture around him was becoming visible. He'd already discovered the chairs facing the desk during his movements through the room, but now he began to be able to make out the carved patterns in their wooden backs. 

Gains had shouted more than once, quite possibly about taking care not to damage things with what to him must have appeared a randomly and wildly swinging blade -- Hajime had been concentrating too hard to note exactly what he had to say -- but by the time it was all over he'd fallen silent, perhaps in recognition of the futility of his words. And Hajime sagged into that silence, looking slowly around for any further traces of shade he'd missed and breathing somewhat hard. 

To locate the source of the last remaining shade he was sensing didn't take long; it was small, but it glowed as brightly white in his vision as any part of the huge shape that had previously filled the room: an object that stood at the far end of the desk he could now properly make out. Trying to decide exactly what it was through the light of the energy that suffused and surrounded it, he peered at it as he circled the desk to the sound of Gains's now much more irate reiteration that he touch nothing. 

The general balance of the desk suggested a picture frame set up in symmetry with the one on the opposite corner. The latter held a photo of an elegant-looking Japanese woman that Hajime assumed to be the long-dead sister; who was likely to be the subject of another such frame he could not guess, unless it was a second instance of the same person. He knew so little of Enishi, however, that he might be wrong on all counts here. Whatever this item was, it had been suffused with shade energy to the point where he could almost call it an artifact -- though he'd pity anyone trying to do magic with its assistance or even in its presence. 

Gains must have realized what Hajime's target was when he raised his sword one more time, for the secretary recommenced shouting. Clearly just the few minutes he'd spent in here, even with Hajime cleaning up the shade, had affected him, for his tone was extremely angry and his language abusive. Hajime ignored him. Invoking his full force of will and concentration once again, he brought the blade down on the glowing object on the desk, taking a grudging care not to allow the blow to continue any farther than was required precisely to destroy the thing so as not to damage the furniture. 

Two halves of whatever it was clattered apart and fell to the floor where he couldn't see them, and Hajime was by now so worn out that he didn't feel like retrieving them immediately to confirm or disprove his guess. He just sheathed his sword and leaned on the desk, around which Gains, still yelling, was approaching. "That was one of Enishi's prized possessions, you brainless fraud! What the hell are you thinking, when I told you not to touch anything in here, destroying things without even explaining what the hell you're doing?" 

"The goddamn thing was packed full of shade!" Sano, now attempting to shout Gains down from the doorway, had apparently followed Hajime's order of retreat no farther than would yet allow him to watch. "It wouldn't have done you any fucking good to have the room cleared if that thing was still left!" 

Perhaps not having heard (and undoubtedly not having understood), Gains continued his tirade right into Hajime's ear. The exorcist continued mostly ignoring him, but the loud tone wasn't exactly diminishing his headache. He did stand straight, however, when Sano, having entered the room, bent to collect the broken pieces from the carpet and bring them around. 

It _was_ a picture frame, or had been. It _had_ matched the other one; the expense of the set was one of Gains's current points of protest. And the photo, now sliced diagonally down the middle into fairly neat, nearly triangular halves, showed a red-haired man with Japanese features marred by the type of meandering pink scar-lines one might obtain from a car accident. 

"This is... Kenshin..." Sano muttered. "Isn't it." There wasn't really any interrogative quality to the remark. 

"How the hell do you know who he is?" demanded Gains, who must have been paying better attention than the others had believed. 

Shaking his head, Hajime didn't bother to answer the question; nor to comment that the picture, depicting Kenshin and being suffused with Enishi's shade, had undoubtedly acted as a sort of focus or channel allowing that shade to transfer continually to Kenshin's ghost; nor to wonder aloud at hatred so obsessive it led to the keeping of a photo of its object exactly parallel to one of somebody for whom the possessor, presumably, felt the opposite emotion. 

Instead, he tore his eyes away from the severed image and fixed them on one of the men at his side. "I believe it's your turn, Mr. Gains."


	40. Seeing Red Part 29

  


Whatever look Hajime had given Gains, along with the admittedly ambiguous declaration in an unexpectedly threatening tone that it was 'his turn,' must have been particularly scary, for even in the midst of his newly increased wrath the secretary took two steps back and raised his hands defensively. Sano didn't wait for whatever bullshit Gains had to say at the moment, however; he broke in with, "No, it's not; it's _your_ turn." 

A startled and even angry expression turned toward Sano as he set down the two halves of the ruined picture frame with greater care than he would have given them had they contained no broken glass. "What do you--" Hajime began, but evidently the amount of anger just in those three words was enough to prove to him that he needed some attention. 

"Yeah," said Sano, enjoying while he had the chance a Hajime angrier than he was. "I'm probably going to need some help from you after I've dealt with him. Can't have you already half as pissed as I am. Come sit down and let me--" It flashed across his mind to say, 'let me suck it out of you,' but decided just in time that the situation and company called for different phrasing. "--absorb this shit," was what he went with instead. 

"I should have you two con artists shot." As Sano led the surprisingly willing Hajime out of the office and toward one of the low sofas in the little lounge next door, Gains was trailing after them with clenched fists and red energy pulsing around him in waves. "I should just kill you both myself," he seethed. "How dare you threaten me? Destroying things in the CEO's office, you goddamn spies!" 

"Shut the fuck up, would you?" It wasn't that Sano didn't think Gains could kill them or have them killed as easily as snapping his fingers; it wasn't that he couldn't sympathize about the type of anger Gains was trying to deal with right now; it was just that he had very little patience for anyone that could watch Hajime's magnificently performed exorcism in the other room and then call him a brainless fraud. 

"Sano," said Hajime sharply. He'd taken a seat without protest, but didn't appear to approve of Sano antagonizing the client. Or whatever Gains was. "If you'll wait just a minute, Mr. Gains," he went on in the most rigid, enforcedly polite tone Sano had ever heard, "Sano will help you." 

"Why the hell can't _you_ do it?" Apparently, despite the fact that Hajime had supposedly threatened him with a deadly weapon, Gains still trusted him over the younger man that had done nothing here so far except tell him to shut the fuck up. 

Hajime's politeness cracking, he replied, "I can, easily. If you want me to stab you." It was the last of his unusual anger, though, for as this exchange had taken place Sano had seated himself beside the exorcist, put a hand on his suit-jacketed shoulder, and drawn the shade right out of him. It had come unexpectedly smoothly and easily, and the increase in Sano's ire it caused might have been a good thing in that it kept him from dwelling on how well he'd become attuned not just to this particular shade, but to Hajime. 

"Thank you." The gold eyes turned in his direction were tired, but Sano thought it was a temporary weakness at worst. 

So he replied with an angry grin and a murmured, "Just let me know when you think you can handle me." 

"I can handle you any time, idiot," Hajime answered in the same tone. "But if you mean a fist fight, give me just a couple of minutes." 

Sano's voice dropped even further as, situation and company notwithstanding, he simply couldn't help remarking, "I think you just flirted with me." 

Hajime rolled his eyes. "And I think you really are an idiot." 

"Is this what you came here for?" Gains's impatient derision broke into the quiet conversation. "To stink up my rooms with this kind of queer bullshit?" 

Sano was on his feet, fists clenched, stalking toward the secretary, before he realized he was even moving. "What the fuck did you just say to me?" 

"Sano," said Hajime again, and this second remonstrance was every bit as hard as his grip on Sano's arm; he too had stood, and was clearly ready to restrain his companion by whatever means necessary. 

There was a very tense moment of silence as two men faced off and a third awaited the outcome. Sano thought he saw something like a mirror of his own struggle in Gains as each of them, with an effort of will, attempted not to release his rage on the other. Sano knew perfectly well that reacting to the old man's remark would be -- and Gains probably knew perfectly well that what he'd said had been -- utterly counterproductive. 

"Just a couple of minutes," Hajime reiterated quietly behind Sano... and he was, in fact, _so close_ behind Sano that these words provided a sudden but pointed distraction. Whether Hajime had intended this Sano couldn't guess, but his next words of distraction, directed over Sano's shoulder, were clearly meant as such: "Mr. Gains, would you tell us a little about your unusual art?" 

Judging by his face, Gains too was aware of the purpose of this request, but, just as Sano had been on multiple previous occasions, he was willing to play along. He began pacing and speaking quickly, first irately but gradually more calmly as his anger was in some measure repressed or circumnavigated by the interest of his topic. Sano found himself dragged backward into another sitting position on the sofa beside Hajime, who gave him a warning look. So with a deep breath and fists yet unclenched, he listened. 

To capture the beauty of the human body in its essence rather than its technicality -- whatever that meant -- was apparently Gains's artistic motivation, flesh his particular fascination, and achieving the precise look and feel of flesh combined with the durability and longevity of more traditional sculpting material such as stone his ultimate ambition. The application of other media to imitate the effects of human skin had never satisfied him, so he'd been experimenting with amalgamations. 

Myriad combinations of sculpting materials and flesh-like substances were available, but so far none of them had been able to answer both his aesthetic desire and the artificial aging process he applied to test the endurance of the finished product. He'd found that the use of actual skin (obtained whence he did not mention) tended, predictably, to produce the best visual and tactile results, but that he could much more easily chemically integrate his sculpting material into artificial flesh grown in his lab -- and that in either case, decomposition became an issue. Nylons and rubbers were more readily manipulated and lasted longer, but lacked the verisimilitude he wanted. And that wasn't even beginning to touch on the differing degrees of chemical compatibility of different sculpting materials with all these substances or the gradient of longevity of the resulting compounds. 

He'd been working on this for many years, and felt he'd at least developed a smooth and meticulous system of experimentation that must allow him, eventually, to hit on the result he wanted. It was only a matter of time. 

Little as Sano had expected it to be, this was all quite interesting, and the next time he took any stock of his surroundings and his own mood he found that even _his_ anger had been pushed back a bit by the discourse. Additionally, it had been at least the couple of minutes Hajime had requested, which meant that hopefully it was time for Sano's big scene and then they could get the hell out of here. A glance at the exorcist won him a nod of confirmation, so he jumped to his feet. 

"That," he said in sincere admiration, pointing at Gains, "is cool. Creepy, but cool." 

Gains didn't seem to know quite how to take this, and only glowered at him. 

"Now, just hold still for a sec." After cracking his knuckles, Sano reached out again toward the secretary. Gains flared red at the approach, shifted a bit, but held his ground. "It doesn't hurt or anything," Sano assured him as he came within arm's length and put a hand on Gains's bony shoulder. 

It _didn't_ hurt, but it was much rougher than it had been with Hajime. Sano tried not to think about that, especially since it was becoming clear that he was going to have to focus hard in order to make it through the entire length of this process. Damn, there was a lot of this stuff. He pulled and pulled, trying not to look at anything, not even at what he was pretty sure were dentures in Gains's mouth, because at the moment even false teeth were enough to break his concentration and send him into a blood frenzy, and there was still more of this shade. That Gains had been able to be distracted away from it at all was a shock; it was probably because he was so old and had more practice at controlling his emotions, but even so, there was a _lot_ here. 

Combined with what Sano had already absorbed, both in the office and from Hajime, this was going to leave him with a greater amount of internalized shade energy than he thought he'd ever carried at once before. And there was _still_ more. The world was turning red, Sano's thoughts were melting away as if in a hot or corrosive substance, and still there was more. Something deadly, fueled by the shade, was pushing out from his mind in a gradual, unstoppable wave, and somehow there was more. He was ready to fight, ready to kill, ready to die, and still there was more. 

Everything he knew, everything he was, _everything_ seemed to be exploding in exquisitely excruciating slow motion. 

And still there was more.


	41. Plastic Part 1

Heero's glance into the gutter to make sure nothing was going to splash up at him as he stepped over it turned into a double-take and a pause. Something unexpectedly flesh-colored had seized his attention, and as he looked down more pointedly he stopped walking entirely. Then he bent and picked up the object that had caught his interest.

It was a doll -- one of those Barbie men, whatever they were called, that dated Barbie or whatever they did -- though Heero hadn't thought they made them anatomically correct these days, nor the males with such long hair. Lying on the ground hadn't done its state of cleanliness much good, and it had no clothes, but seemed otherwise undamaged. What a strange thing to find in the gutter.

He weighed the doll in his hand, looking around for a child that might perhaps have dropped it. The plastic had a somewhat brittle feeling to it, and the little figure was heavier than he would have thought it should be. Looking back down, he reflected that he was (understandably) out of touch with the world of dolls; he hadn't thought they made the faces this nicely detailed, either. Really, for a toy, it was rather attractive. It seemed old, somehow, too, for all it was in such good shape. Why and how such a thing should be here he couldn't guess, but surely this was someone's collector's item abandoned by accident.

Despite feeling a little foolish, Heero couldn't bring himself to set it down once he'd reached this conclusion. If he put it back, it would just get ruined, and it was already so forlorn... Besides, it was undoubtedly worth something to someone, even if that was just someone on ebay; he might as well try to locate its owner. Or sell it. He could let the businesses in the immediate area know he'd found it, in case someone came asking, and if that didn't lead anywhere he could check online to see how much it might be worth.

He didn't want to put a dirty, wet doll in his briefcase, but neither did he much want to be seen carrying it -- he wasn't sure how his co-workers would react to the sight, but he was certain it would be annoying. So he held it down against his leg as he hurried on into the parking lot, trying to hide it as best he could with one hand and feeling its long, matted hair brushing him as he walked.

Mentally reviewing the contents of his refrigerator and kitchen cupboards and trying to decide whether or not to stop at the grocery store on the way home, he largely forgot about the doll as he drove. But once he removed his briefcase from on top of it on reaching his apartment (having decided to skip shopping today), there it was staring up at him with wide eyes and a vague smile. Sardonically he shook his head and carried it inside.

The kitchen sink under running water seemed a good place for it to wait while Heero put his work things away and changed clothing, and once he came back into the kitchen he poured some dish soap over it with a lavish hand. It looked better already. After double-checking that his mental fridge inventory was correct, he returned his full attention to the doll again. Keeping it under the tap, he worked the soap off of the plastic and out of the tangled hair, then turned the water off and held it out for inspection.

No, it didn't look bad at all. The face was remarkably nice, actually, for something that small, and the hair was soft and didn't feel much like plastic. Hadn't they made dolls' hair out of real human hair in some previous decade? This hair felt real, which was a little disconcerting but probably increased the value of the piece. The plastic genitalia was strange too; Heero wondered if this might not have been designed as some kind of gag gift. After a moment of thought, he pulled a paper towel from the roll behind the sink, folded it in half, and wrapped it around the doll's waist, tucking the upper fold beneath the lower so it would stay. Studying the effect, he wondered if this was what little girls felt like when they dressed their dolls.

Again he shook his head. "So what am I going to do with you?" he murmured.

"You could start by combing my hair."

Heero dropped -- or, rather, _threw_ the doll into the sink, jumping back with a startled noise. That thing had just... that thing had really just...

  
[Art by Link Worshiper](http://link_worshiper.livejournal.com/)

"Just a suggestion," said the doll's small voice, echoing slightly against the metal of the sink.

After his initial surprise, Heero didn't quite know what to think. He moved forward and stared down at the doll, which now lay on its face partially hidden by this morning's cereal bowl; the paper towel skirt had come askew, so a pair of plastic buttocks, half-hidden by clinging wet hair, was all Heero could actually see. Even as he looked, though, it commented further, "I hope you didn't faint. I hate it when they faint."

"I'm sure the audience likes it, though," Heero murmured as he reached into the sink somewhat tentatively and drew the doll out again. This time he pulled the paper towel off completely and began a minute examination of the plastic body. He was looking for the camera.

"You know," said the doll calmly as Heero turned it over and over, "this is just one of the horrible effects of reality TV. A talking doll never gets _believed_ anymore; it's always, 'All right, where's the audience?'"

"Yes, that _is_ one of the _biggest_ horrible effects of reality TV," Heero replied dryly. "It happens all the time." No feature on the doll's body seemed to resemble camera, speaker, or microphone, but surely the unusual heaviness of the thing was explained by their presence _somewhere_.

The doll laughed. "OK, mostly I just hate reality TV," it admitted. "And it _does_ make it difficult to get anyone to believe that the doll in their hand is really talking to them on its own."

By this point Heero had turned it to face him once again, and could swear that the little lips were actually moving -- stiffly, as one might expect one's lips to move if one were made of plastic, but moving nonetheless. "Who would _ever_ believe that?" he wondered. He thought the camera was probably focused through the eyes, since that made a certain sort of sense, and was peering closely at them trying to find any sign of it. They were nicely-painted eyes, well-detailed and an attractive shade of indigo, and, as far as he could tell, not cameras. They didn't even appear to be transparent.

"Children sometimes do," the doll said in a tone that implied he would have been shrugging had his shoulders contained the necessary muscles. Or... any muscles. His voice, though fairly quiet, didn't sound either recorded or transmitted; communication technology really had come a long way.

"I'm not a child," Heero said flatly. Perhaps if he removed one of the limbs...

"No, you're a big, strong, handsome _man_ who's going to be nice to little helpless me," the doll cajoled absurdly. Then it went on in a more practical tone, "Also you're... wasting your time trying to pull my leg off. I don't come apart."

Ceasing his attempt to dismember the doll, Heero just stared at it with a raised brow. "Are you flirting with me?"

"Of course." Its lips were definitely moving.

"If this _is_ one of those _Punk'd_-style shows, I have to say I don't think much of this premise."

"I dunno; I think it might work pretty well." Here was that 'shrug' tone again. "Too bad it's _not_ a show; I think being a TV star would make being a doll suck less. I could get one of those luxury Barbie houses and a little convertible and everything."

"Well, it's time for this doll to go back to the gutter he came from. I _was_ going to try to find your owner, or maybe sell you on ebay, but I think you'll do OK on your own."

"Thanks for the bath, at least," the doll sighed. Pensively, softly, it added, "I wonder how much I'd go for on ebay these days..."


	42. Plastic Part 2

In response to Heero's somewhat distracted look as he answered his door, Quatre remarked, "I just talked to you a few hours ago. You didn't already forget I was coming over, did you?"

"No, I didn't," replied Heero almost absently, stepping back to allow Quatre into the entry and closing the door behind him.

"Well, what's wrong?" Quatre persisted.

Heero frowned. "I guess I'll show you."

He gestured to the kitchen, which was set apart from the rest of the living/dining room only in that it had linoleum rather than carpet, and which lay immediately to the left of the entry. Quatre set down his shopping bag and backpack and immediately reached for the strange object on the counter. Heero stood aside in silence; evidently this was exactly what he'd planned on showing.

  
[Art by Link Worshiper](http://link_worshiper.livejournal.com/)

As Quatre examined the doll quizzically, Heero gave one of his usual unhelpful explanations. "I found it in the gutter outside work." After an almost expectant pause, he went on slowly,"I thought I might try to find its owner." Again he paused, as if waiting for Quatre to interrupt, then finally said, "Or see if it's valuable enough to sell it online or something."

At last the apparently hoped-for interjection came, though not from Quatre: "I think it's pretty obvious," said the doll, "that I'm a 'he,' not an 'it.'"

Quatre dropped the doll and stepped back, startled and staring. Its _lips_ had _moved_.

"Yeah," said Heero darkly. Slowly the doll, which had landed face-down on the counter, moved its unbending plastic arms and righted itself stiffly, ending up in a sitting position with its legs straight out, facing them. At Quatre's side Heero shifted uncomfortably and muttered, "Well, I haven't seen it do _that_."

"_He_," the doll insisted. "Surely you noticed the giant plastic penis."

"'Giant?'" wondered Heero with a raised brow.

At the same moment Quatre speculated, "Is this some kind of reality TV stunt?"

The doll sighed.

"_He_\--" Heero emphasized the pronoun-- "claims it's not. I can't find any cameras or microphones or anything."

"But they have to be there somewhere." Quatre took up the doll again, straightening its legs out and examining it once more, this time with the aim of detecting hidden electronic devices. The plastic penis _was_ rather large, proportionally speaking; obviously this was some kind of joke. Quatre smoothed the long brown hair away from the doll's face and looked closely at the latter. "Why is he wet?"

It was the doll rather than Heero that answered. "He gave me a bath. He rubbed me all over. It was _niiice_."

Assuming the licentious tone was part of the joke, Quatre simply shook his head and kept looking for the camera. Heero, however, seemed prompted to reply. "Yes, I'm sure all those plastic nerves of yours enjoyed it."

The doll laughed regretfully. "You caught me. I can't feel a damn thing. I'm aware that he's turning me over and over -- you're looking for cameras, aren't you? -- but I can't really feel it. Someday maybe I'll get used to that."

So forlorn was the complaint that Quatre had to laugh. "You're pretty convincing!"

Plastic lips stretched past what Quatre would have thought their limit must be into what might be called a grin. "Thanks. It's a side effect of being real."

"Real _what_?" Heero wondered.

"I'm not inclined to tell," the doll replied a little haughtily. "You're just going to throw me back into the gutter."

"I'm not going to throw you back into the gutter." At Heero's impatient tone Quatre had to restrain a laugh; sometimes the most unexpected things could get Heero involved and worked up.

"No," Quatre agreed pleasantly. "If technology really _has_ come far enough for dolls to have conversations with people, you've got to be pretty valuable. And if you're just a transmitter for somebody who's secretly taping us, then _somebody_'s in violation of certain privacy laws."

"Oh, nicely done," the doll commended him. Heero's sharp nod seemed to indicate he felt much the same.

"Anyway," Quatre went on lightly, "the game's going to start..." He looked down at the doll. "I don't suppose you're a college basketball fan?"

"For you, I could be," said the doll with a wink -- an actual wink, though the examination of him that Quatre had conducted thus far wouldn't have led him to guess he had mobile eyelids.

Quatre shook his head skeptically. "Heero," he wondered, glancing up at his friend, "what have you gotten us into?"


	43. Plastic Part 3

"I've watched a lot of TV in my time," the doll was saying as Heero propped him up against the lamp on the end table beside the sofa in front of the television, "-- and by that I mean more TV than anyone should _ever_ watch in a single lifetime -- but not much basketball." The propping took longer than Heero had expected, since the paper towel skirt, which he'd replaced, didn't want to behave. 

"What kind of TV do you prefer?" Apparently Quatre had decided to play along. 

Heero, who hadn't decided anything yet, rolled his eyes. 

"I like sci-fi," the doll stated. "I used to watch that channel all day at my last house. The girl would leave me where I could see the TV, and the remote next to me where I could reach it, when she went to school; I just had to make sure to turn the TV off if her mom came into the room!" 

"'The girl?'" Quatre echoed curiously. 

"Yeah, my last kid; the last person who was taking care of me." With a disconcerting swiveling motion, the doll shook his head. "She liked to dress me up, and she liked to alter the clothes she had for me. She'd put sequins on them and stripes with markers and stuff like that -- creative little kid. The problem was that she'd take off my clothing to do something to it, and then forget to put it back on me, so I'd be laying around naked. 

"She was a little too young to appreciate my fine physique... she just forgot. But her mom hated finding me around naked all the time. I didn't talk to the mom, because she was touchy and would have freaked out, so she didn't know why I'm so detailed in certain areas, and she didn't like it. She told the kid that if she found me somewhere naked one more time, she was taking me to Goodwill. Well, guess what happened." 

Quatre was standing beside the table now, looking down at the doll in silent fascination. Heero found that he too was staring, inordinately interested in the narrative. 

The doll wrapped up his story with, "So I have no idea what's been happening on _Dr. Who_ lately, and it's driving me crazy." 

"_Very_ convincing," Quatre murmured, shaking his head. "Somebody's done a really good job on this." 

Heero nodded. "How did you supposedly get from Goodwill to the gutter?" he asked the doll as Quatre turned on the TV and settled onto the couch beside him. 

"Oh... well..." The doll seemed a little annoyed, though whether at Heero's choice of words or what he was about to relate Heero wasn't sure. "I always try talking to the person who gets ahold of me, but it doesn't always work very well. They all think I'm a reality TV thing or some kind of walkie-talkie, like you guys do. I usually change hands a bunch of times before I end up anywhere I can stay for a while. Some woman buys me and then throws me out for the usual reasons... some kid she's babysitting picks me out of the garbage, tries to hide me from her mom on the way home, and drops me... some dog chews on me and carries me around... dogs _love_ to chew on me... sometimes it goes on for days and days." 

"How long do you usually stay somewhere?" Having found the channel, Quatre was now digging through his shopping bag and pulling out cheese dip and chips. 

"It varies," said the doll in his 'shrug' tone. "Days, months, years... depends on how long it takes people to decide I'm an unhealthy figment of their imaginations and get rid of me." 

The sincerity in Quatre's tone as he replied, "Oh, I see," struck Heero as rather worrisome. Quatre wasn't necessarily gullible, but he _was_ kind-hearted almost to a fault, and it might be problematic if he started believing this weirdness, even just a little, simply because it seemed so pathetic. 

"All right, enough about the doll," Heero commanded stonily. 

"Duo," said the doll. 

"What?" 

"That's my name. Duo Maxwell." 

"Not Ken?" wondered Heero dryly, having eventually remembered the name of Barbie's boyfriend. 

"Ken's got nothing on me," the doll -- Duo -- grinned. "Did you ever see a well-hung Ken doll?" 

"Well, I'm sorry we're not watching _Dr. Who_," Quatre broke in, addressing Duo, "but maybe you'll enjoy the basketball game." It was a pointed reminder that the latter was starting. 

"Oh, don't worry about it," the doll replied, waving one arm stiffly up and down. "Just explain the rules and I'll be fine." 

Paying full attention to basketball with a talking doll on the end table was something of a challenge. Duo -- or, more accurately, whoever was controlling the doll -- was a quick learner: it only took a couple of commercial break lectures on the rules and a few comments about events during the game to get him just as involved as they were, and he readily joined in cheering on the team they were supporting... but that was only natural for someone trying to win their trust in order to further the practical joke or whatever this was. 

"That was great!" he was saying enthusiastically once it was over. "It's too bad I've never watched basketball before! There was one guy I watched a lot of football with a couple of years ago, but he wasn't a basketball fan." 

"Did he throw you away too?" Quatre wondered. 

"He Goodwilled me," replied Duo a little bitterly. "You know I fucking hate Goodwill? Yeah, his girlfriend thought it was weird how he kept an anatomically-correct _man doll_ around, and he didn't want to tell her that I talked because he was afraid she'd think he was crazy. I could have just talked to _her_, but he thought it wasn't a good idea, so he just got rid of me." 

"It makes sense, I'm afraid," Quatre said apologetically. 

Heero nodded. 

"Well..." Duo swiveled his plastic head toward them, his tone thoughtful. "I know you two still don't believe me, but--" 

"Believe what, exactly?" Heero broke in. "Are you inclined to tell yet?" 

"That I have no cameras or microphones in me... nobody's talking through me or recording you... and I'm not a piece of advanced technology designed to have conversations with bored little girls while they dress me up." 

"All right," said the skeptical Heero. "Then what supposedly are you?" 

Seriously Duo replied, "I'm a human. Or I was. These days I'm just a creepy doll. But I'm _supposed_ to be human. See, I'm under a curse."


	44. Plastic Part 4

  


Quatre tried his hardest, his very hardest, but he simply couldn't help himself; he burst out laughing. "You're _what_?" 

The doll just shook his head. 

"Everything sounded really good up until that part." With an effort, Quatre got control of himself again. "Seriously, I'd change it; say you're alien technology stranded on Earth or something. That would fit better with you liking sci-fi shows anyway." 

"The shows I like have nothing to do with the fact that I'm a doll," Duo protested. "Besides, you wouldn't believe the alien technology thing either, so why not just tell the truth?" 

Heero was actually smirking a bit at this conversation. "We might come closer to believing that, though." 

"Why is science fiction always so much more plausible to people than fantasy?" complained Duo. "Why are robots who can have intelligent conversations more believable than curses?" 

"Because we've made progress toward--" Heero began. 

Quatre put a hand on his shoulder. "Debating the psychological impact of technological advancement is pointless right now." 

So Heero asked a question instead. "How did you get..." The rueful half-smile he'd adopted in response to Quatre's admonition changed to another skeptical look. "...cursed?" 

"I'm not even really sure," Duo replied. "My friend and I'd been playing around with magic for a while, but neither of us was very good at it. We had an argument, and I heard him starting a spell... _some_ kind of spell, but he was talking real quietly... but I didn't think he would do something like this to me. Hell, I didn't think he _could_ do something like this! We never had this kind of power..." 

"Well, that's convenient," Quatre said a little sarcastically, and began counting off points on his fingers. "Somebody _else_ cast the spell, so you don't know exactly what he did... It's something stronger than you thought you guys were capable of, so not something you can reverse on your own... I bet you're going to claim you can't do spells as a doll anyway... and you've probably lost track of your friend... am I right?" 

Duo tilted his plastic chin up in a motion that made his entire head swivel backwards. "No, I _can't_ cast spells as a doll," he said a bit snappishly. "And my friend is long dead, since he was born in 1898." 

Heero snorted. "This keeps getting better." 

The doll seemed to take a deep breath, which was faintly audible but in no way visible, and to put some effort into downplaying his irritation. "You don't have to believe me," he said, with admirable calm. "Just don't take me to Goodwill." 

With a thoughtful sidelong smile at his friend, Quatre remarked to Heero, "I think we know how to keep him in line now, don't you? Just threaten to Goodwill him, and he'll probably do anything we ask." 

"What on earth would we ask him to do?" Heero was giving Quatre a dark look, almost accusing, and Quatre realized immediately what the problem was. 

"Heero, I don't _believe_ him," he said sternly. 

Heero's expression seemed to ask, _"Are you sure?"_ and Quatre's in return was almost a glare. Heero really was getting worked up about this. 

"Well, my flight leaves at 7:50," Quatre said next, turning away and changing the subject; "I'm going to go take a shower." He was a little surprised at his own tone of voice -- it seemed to insert an _"I give up"_ into his statement somewhere. There really was little more of use, he felt, to be gotten out of the doll (though probably a good deal more of _interest_), and Heero was evidently in a strange state of mind. 

It was reluctantly, however, that he rose from the couch and made his way toward the hall. Only the awareness that he didn't want to be either dirty or tired at tomorrow's meeting induced him to abandon such a fascinating scene in progress. He did turn again at the entry to the hallway, though, and look back to where Heero was still pensively staring down at Duo. "Good luck with him..."


	45. Plastic Part 5

  


"So I'm a little confused," Duo was saying after Quatre had gone. "Is he or is he not your roommate? He knocked on the door earlier and you had to let him in, but now he's taking a shower here?" 

"He's not." Heero wondered why the doll cared. "I mean he's not my roommate," he clarified. "But he lives out east past the edge of town, and we're closer to the airport here; he usually stays the night when he has a flight the next day." 

"Ohhhhhh," said Duo in an exaggerated tone of understanding. "Where is he flying to?" 

Heero's cool answer was, "None of your business." 

"Fine, fine," Duo said breezily. "Where are _you_ going?" For Heero had stood. 

"None of your business," Heero repeated, moving toward the hall as Quatre had. Also as Quatre had, he paused in the doorway and glanced back. He couldn't help thinking that, whatever kind of hoax this was, Duo did look rather lonely and pathetic sitting there on the end table, stiff and unmoving in his paper towel skirt. Heero watched him for a moment, a frown growing on his face as much in response to his strange feelings at the sight as to the sight itself. Then, returning to the couch, he found the remote and turned on the TV again, this time to Syfy. 

"Oh!" came Duo's surprised voice from his left. "Thanks!" 

Heero, feeling a little stupid, did not reply. 

Resultant upon a greater demand and therefore a higher price for one-bedroom apartments in the complex just when he'd been looking, Heero lived in a two-bedroom. The second room did hold a bed, and did come in useful when Quatre spent the night here, but its primary purpose was to house Heero's computer desk and bookshelf. So while Quatre was in the shower and the doll was watching television, Heero got on the internet. 

Typing 'talking doll' into Google made him feel even stupider than leaving the TV on said talking doll's favorite channel as if he really thought a piece of plastic (and presumably electronics) was capable of a preference. The search results were far from pretty, and even farther from useful. The things little girls would play with... 

The things _grown men_ would play with... 

He turned 'safe search' on and tried again. 

The creepiness of the results didn't really diminish with the sex toys removed from the lineup, nor did he find anything useful in the fifteen pages he had the patience to glance over. Neither did adding terms like 'hoax' or 'reality TV' or any clever combination of quotation marks call up anything that seemed at all _similar_ to this situation, let alone _related_. '"Duo Maxwell" "cursed doll"' gave him no results at all. Not that he'd expected any; they (whoever they were) undoubtedly had the doll give a different name to each person it attempted to trick, for this very reason. 

Frustrated and judging by the cessation of the bathroom fan that Quatre would soon want the room, Heero shut down the computer. 

Duo was watching something involving a psychic couple and an albino trying to stop a clan war among people with weird hair, but how much he was enjoying it was anybody's guess. The design of his face seemed well-suited for emotional display, Heero thought, and it was unfortunate -- and a little uncanny -- to see it so stiff and dispassionate. 

Then he shook his own head vigorously. He shouldn't have been so quick to judge Quatre earlier, when here he was thinking things like this. Duo was not a _person_, for god's sake. He was either an expensive toy or a conduit for some prankster's misplaced sense of entertainment. 

"Something wrong?" Duo wondered, his head swiveled a good forty degrees past disconcerting to glance at Heero. 

Instead of answering the question, Heero requested the identity of the rather stupid-looking show Duo was watching. This proved not to be the best idea, as it led to a conversation about the series and the broader topic of science fiction and its typical follies. And with a piece of plastic he'd found in a gutter and was already having a difficult time dismissing as the joke part of him was still certain it must be, Heero really had no desire to be enjoying any discussion quite this much.


	46. Seeing Red Part 30

  


Hajime had never slept on the sofa in his den. He knew it was comfortable enough to sit on, but, though he had once or twice dozed off during a DVD he'd thought would be more interesting, he hadn't ever had occasion to test this seat's functionality as a bed before. And perhaps this was why, though he'd been attempting to take a much-needed nap, he just couldn't lie still. He had to rise, again and again, and go back to his bedroom to check on the young man he'd installed in his own, actual bed. 

After a while, though, he was forced to face facts: this really had nothing to do with the comfort level of the sofa. Had it been merely that keeping him awake, he might have made himself useful -- might have contacted Kaoru to let her know things were progressing, or might at least have tried to find Kenshin to attempt to see exactly how much more progress they _needed_ to make. But, no, all he could bring himself to do was look in, over and over, at the motionless figure of Sano, and long to smoke a cigarette. 

Finally he gave in to the unhealthy urge. He usually didn't smoke inside the house, but at the moment he couldn't quite bear to go farther away from his bedroom than just across the hall, in case Sano woke up. So he opened the windows in the den and hovered beside them at one end of the sofa as he poisoned himself and the air around him. 

When next his inability to stand still brought him to face the interior of the room, he found Tokio looking up at him with an air both skeptical and a little concerned. He waved his free hand in the direction of the bedroom and asked, "Is Misao still in there?" 

She began to lick a paw as she explained that Sano had a very high body temperature. 

Hajime wondered if this was natural or if the young man had a fever. A fever was only to be expected. A fever could be controlled. 

Tokio cocked her head. She'd been under the impression that Hajime was the one that had hurt Sano -- but if he'd done it deliberately, why was he fretting about it? 

Turning back to the window, stabbing the remainder of his cigarette into the ash tray on the sill, trying to combat the desire to light another, Hajime said harshly, "Yes, I was the one. I had no choice." 

But that wasn't quite true. There might have been some other way to exorcize the greater-than-usual amount of shade Sano had absorbed. Though it was a technique he'd never really used, Hajime _might_ have been able to attune himself to the energy and absorb some of it to take part of the load off Sano. But could he have figured it out in time? Or what they'd done before -- the insults and the arguments and the actual fighting -- _might_ have worked just as well as ever, once Sano had awakened from the faint his unusual level of absorption had induced. But that had been the difficulty: it had rather seemed as if Sano never would awaken. The much-diminished pulse and respiration rate, the rapidly cooling extremities, and, worst of all, the completely inaccessible psyche behind an impenetrable barrier of shade... 

Hajime didn't remember ever having been so worried. And though his desperate measures had had the desired effect, had brought Sano back, that had only changed the shape of his worry. And Tokio was picking up on it. 

Was this, she queried, one of those behaviors pack animals like humans engaged in? Had Hajime hurt Sano in order to establish dominance, and now he worried that he hadn't gotten his point across thoroughly enough? 

"Oh, I'm sure I made my point." Then, in spite of his better judgment, he asked, "Why would you think I'd want to establish dominance?" 

Tokio replied that it would be to make certain Sano knew whom he belonged to. 

"And what makes you think he belongs to me?" 

She stretched out so that the markings on her back seemed to ripple along her long body, which was her equivalent of a shrug. She'd never seen him this invested in another human before, so she'd just assumed that Hajime wanted to keep Sano as his mate. Humans sometimes kept mates of the same sex, she added wisely as she began walking out of the room. She personally didn't see the attraction, but neither did she understand cars or bathtubs or why she and Misao were supposed to stay off the kitchen counters; Hajime undoubtedly knew all about human things like that. Then she added that it smelled bad in here, and was gone. 

Hajime gave a soft, bitter laugh. So now even his familiar's thoughts pointed that direction, did they? 

He lit another cigarette. 

He wasn't blind to what Sano wanted. How could he be? Little as he'd ever been interested in anything of the sort, he wasn't unaware of its existence or its importance in the lives of others. And Sano hadn't exactly been discreet. His interest had developed rapidly -- for all the hours they'd spent together, it had still been only a single week -- but Sano himself had admitted that he made fast decisions, and Hajime supposed there had been wilder and hastier ones. 

This would all be much simpler if Hajime could claim he didn't like Sano, as that would neatly solve this little problem. But he did, in fact, like Sano. It was odd... he didn't like many people... but he liked Sano, enough that he didn't think he could bring himself to lie about it. 

He liked the way Sano seemed to live so intensely and yet so lazily, somehow, at the same time. He liked Sano's sense of humor. He liked that, aimless as Sano often appeared, still he had standards he passionately adhered to. He even liked the way Sano grumbled so much despite simultaneously seeming pretty happy with his life. 

And perhaps some of this had been brought to Hajime's attention only by the sight of Sano's blood on his hands. 

Insulting Sano, annoying Sano, even thinking badly of some of Sano's life choices... that was one thing. But today's experience had proven to Hajime that the idea of _losing_ Sano was uncomfortable and agitating enough to be called, perhaps, painful. 

But wasn't he, in thinking thus, trying to hold onto something he'd never actually had? Maybe Tokio was right, and he _was_ trying to establish ownership. Because though their relationship wasn't exactly professional, they weren't exactly friends either. 

At some point during these thoughts, Hajime had finished his second cigarette and drifted yet again to his bedroom door. The room's interior was dim, but still he could make out certain aspects of Sano's face, and the faint light from the hallway on the curve of shoulders -- one bare, one bulked up by white bandage -- just above the blanket. Misao was visible as a perfect black circle at the young man's side. 

Friendship, though a rarity in Hajime's life, was nothing distasteful. Friendship with Sano, he thought, was even specifically desirable. He would like to get to know a Sano that wasn't enraged all the time. He would like to see where Sano's geological fixation went, how the skinflint father would take the news. He would like to gather more evidence for or against his theory about Sano's magical talents. He would like to talk to Sano about... well, anything, really. He could easily envision a lot of time spent with Sano with little more to do than what he believed people generally called 'hanging out.' He just... wanted Sano around. 

But Sano obviously wanted more than that. At this point, assuming he didn't hate Hajime forever when he woke up and learned what had happened, Sano might even believe he was _entitled_ to more than friendship. And though that was nonsense, still Hajime didn't like the idea of disappointing him. 

Of the type of relationship Sano probably had in mind, however... of the type of emotions that would prompt someone to form such a relationship, or at least would be expected to develop once they had... Hajime simply wasn't sure he was capable. Even the more simplistic concept Tokio had suggested, that of seeking a mate -- at least in the sexual sense -- was something completely alien to him. And any sense less intimately involved than that, he was afraid Sano would not accept. 

He didn't _want_ to hurt Sano, but, just as he had earlier today, he feared there was no other option. 

"I have to say, it is nice to finally see what he looks like. I believe I never saw him during my life." 

Though the soft voice immediately to Hajime's left and a little above him was unexpected, the exorcist thought he managed to hide his startlement fairly well as he turned to regard the ghost that had at some point appeared silently at his side. "You might not recognize him right now even if you had," he replied; "he's unusually dressed today. The bandages aren't normal either. I think." And as he said this, he took his first real look at Kenshin Himura.


	47. Seeing Red Part 31

  


Kenshin Himura was taking his first real look at the man he was fairly certain had been around him quite a bit just recently. The narrow eyes that currently returned his scrutiny were an unsettlingly light brown or even gold, and, like the other harsh features surrounding them, distinctly Japanese. Figure tall and lean, hairstyle odd and angular, clad in stark black and white, the man wasn't the most friendly-looking of all the people Kenshin could have had his first post-dissolution conversation with. So happy was Kenshin, however, to be able to have a conversation with _anyone_ that he wasn't going to complain. 

When the man finished his examination of the ghost and turned back to regard the sleeper in the room beyond, Kenshin was reminded of the topic on which he'd started the aforementioned conversation. "Is he all right? I missed what happened to him." 

"He'll be fine," said the tall man briefly. After a moment he glanced at Kenshin again. "So you didn't go into the building, then. Sano was wondering why it was taking you so long to catch up." Sano, Kenshin noted, was the name of the man they were discussing -- the one he'd been haunting for... he wasn't really sure how long. 

"The place the red mist was coming from?" he answered the question, shaking his head and smiling wanly. "No. I think it's safe to say I have had enough of that for one afterlife. When I got close to where Sano had stopped and felt how much more of it there was, I waited at a distance. And then... I was already under the impression that Sano was trying to help me, but I wasn't ready for the red mist just to disappear all of a sudden." 

Though he spoke calmly, he knew he would never forget as long as he... existed... the abrupt withdrawal of the angry shroud that had kept him for so many uncounted days or weeks or months largely cut off from the world. He'd found he'd almost forgotten what that world was even like in his near-complete lack of ability to sense it properly. Suddenly able to see and hear and smell and taste again (though touch, it appeared, was not to be restored), he'd gone a little crazy for a while: losing track of his priorities, he'd floated aimlessly in sensory overload until the moment he'd realized Sano was once more on the move; then he'd retraced his... path... and followed Sano as he'd been doing since he'd first found him, and eventually come to this house. 

"I did that, actually." 

This curt pronouncement dragged Kenshin back out of intense memory to the present, and prompted him to reply, "Then thank you very much." 

The man nodded slightly, then murmured, "Not that Sano wasn't useful." 

It was a little odd how precisely Kenshin still seemed able to mark his own movements and gestures when he lacked a sense of touch. Consciousness of remembered muscular impulse, perhaps? It didn't really matter; all that did was that he now found himself smiling slightly as he followed the man's intent gaze back to the sleeping Sano in the bedroom. "He is a remarkable person, you know." 

Shifting, raising a hand to the doorframe, then stilling again, the man said nothing. 

"I know you have talked to my wife," Kenshin began a little more quietly, "so you may know that I was haunting her for a while..." He paused. He'd meant this as a comment about Sano, but he realized quickly that it was going to become an explanation or even a story, and had to backtrack and start at an earlier point. "When I died, I was not sure why I became a ghost. I was drawn to Kaoru, almost pulled towards her, which I thought was only natural; but there were no other ghosts around, so being one could not be entirely natural. I thought maybe I was allowed to stay so I could learn why she was so upset with me during that last month of my life. I thought maybe I was being punished for whatever I did to her... or maybe," he added contemplatively, "for something I did years ago..." 

All the intensity of the amber gaze had transferred to Kenshin now, though the man made no move to leave the doorway where he stood and still did not say a word. In the face of such obvious interest, Kenshin could but go on, though going on at this point was not necessarily easy. 

"I watched her suffering... I watched her trying to be strong for everyone else, for Kenji -- trying to decide how much to tell him and how to answer his questions -- but she could not hide how much pain she was in from me, since I saw her when nobody else was looking." Were the tears on his face just some sort of astral projection? Merely a memory of tears? And how, exactly, was he even aware that they were there, when he couldn't feel them? He took a deep, false breath into lungs that, he supposed, no longer really existed. 

"There has always been a sort of... pulling... feeling... I'm afraid I have no way to describe it any better than that, but it has been there since the beginning -- since the moment I realized I was dead: something pulling me, trying to pull me away from here, I guess into whatever comes next. And Kaoru was what held me back. Watching her in so much pain and wanting to talk to her, to try and help her somehow, kept me from ever responding at all to that pulling... thing. And it got worse when I finally found out what really happened that night when I died. 

"You would think a ghost would know all about his own death. Doesn't it seem unfair to die and not know anything more than you did when you were alive? But I didn't know the truth until I heard her say it out loud. I think it was the only time she _has_ said it out loud since it happened, unless she told you..." 

"She did," the man -- whom Kenshin was beginning to regard as his audience -- nodded. "And don't be concerned that she'll get in any trouble for it; we don't intend to tell anyone." 

"Thank you," said Kenshin, intensely and sincerely. His first impression (more or less) of this harsh stranger wasn't a very good one, but he deeply appreciated that the man had made this reassurance immediately and unbidden. He went on with his story. "She said it like a sort of prayer, as if by saying it out loud she might be able to get control of what happened and how she felt about it. It didn't work, but it let me hear the truth about how I died and what happened before that. 

"When I knew Kaoru felt like a murderer because of what she had done, I wanted even more than ever to talk to her somehow. I wanted to let her know I did not -- that I could _never_ blame her, and that actually I knew what it... well..." No reason to pour out, in his wife's absence, everything he wanted to say to her. "That kind of thing. I knew then that _that_ was why I became a ghost. I can't move on, no matter how hard it pulls me, until I tell her. 

"But she could not hear me or see me; she had no idea I was there. I don't know how long that went on. I don't think I am aware of time the same way I was when I was alive; I have no idea how long I spent trying to communicate with her without being able to get even the smallest response from her." 

The man snorted quietly. "That sounds familiar," he murmured, and left Kenshin to interpret the remark as he would. 

"And then the red mist came. It appeared out of nowhere all of a sudden and completely covered me. I had no way of knowing what it was or where it came from, and, though I did not like it, at first I also did not consider it a problem." 

"It didn't make you angry?" the man wondered with a raised brow. 

"Not me," replied Kenshin ruefully. 

"Interesting." 

"All it did to me was cut me off from everything. I couldn't see or hear anything around me through the mist, except for... well, I could still sense my wife and son, but it was not the same as before. Before, I saw and heard everything just like I did when I was alive, just like I can now. But through the mist, it was... a different sense. Something that was probably there all along, but that I never noticed until it was the only way I could find them." 

"A psychic connection." Though the man's tone was contemplative, the little nod he gave had no doubt in it. "Even people without any magical skill form bonds like that with others." 

Not entirely pleased with a pronouncement as of expertise from someone that hadn't actually been part of this experience, but not wanting be impolite, Kenshin merely accepted the diagnosis with a nod of his own and continued. "Whatever it was, I was able to 'see' Kaoru and Kenji even through the mist, and there were even a few things _relating_ to them that got through normally -- whenever one of them mentioned the other out loud, I could still hear it -- but most of what they were actually doing and saying I usually couldn't make out. I can't say for sure how long it took me to realize that the mist was affecting Kaoru -- or, even once I did notice, how long it took me to decide that it really was the mist, or possibly me, and not some other cause. 

"You probably know what it did to her. Yes?" Kenshin shook his head, remembering in powerless pity and frustration. "I never wanted to talk to her any less, to tell her everything I wanted to tell her... and inside the mist I felt that pulling sensation even less than before... so for _me_, nothing had changed except maybe to make me want to stay with her even more. But I _couldn't_ stay with her and keep making her situation even worse than it already was and her even more unhappy. I had to leave. I had no idea where I could go or what I would do, or even if I would ever see my wife again, but... I couldn't stay." 

Again the man nodded, this time in a manner that suggested he'd had guesses confirmed by this. At the same time, his interest seemed to intensify as Kenshin was finally approaching what had been the point of his long narrative from the beginning. 

"I just started wandering," he said, "aimlessly." Helplessly he lifted his spectral hands. Trying to describe the emptiness, the hopelessness, the misery of a search without an object, a path without a destination, of knowing he'd left everything he loved behind in more pain even that he felt... he wasn't going to bother with the attempt. Instead, he let his hands fall to his sides and glanced into the bedroom. "And then I sensed Sano. 

"I had already found that Kaoru and Kenji were not the only ones I could sense through the mist. There were people here and there, when I was moving around without any real place to go, who I could sense, a little. But Sano was... _amazingly_ clearer, and more something I was drawn to, than anyone else. He was almost as clear as Kaoru and Kenji. I never met him while I was alive, so it probably wasn't any kind of psychic connection -- at least not one that I had already made. I think what I felt was... potential. 

"He was not my friend, but he _could have been_. He was the kind of person I could have been friends with, _best_ friends with. He was somebody I could have loved. I think I was drawn to him because I could sense all sorts of things about him, maybe things that would have taken me a lot longer when I was alive. It was like..." Kenshin paused, pensive, trying to think how to describe it, and eventually settled on a metaphor. 

"Imagine flying over a tropical island completely covered in mist. You know there is a jungle beneath you; you know exactly what kinds of plants and animals are down there, but you can't see anything through the mist. And then ahead of you, rising out of the mist and _glowing_, you see a volcano. That was what finding Sano was like." Though certain misleadingly visual terms rendered this not entirely satisfying, Kenshin left it as it was, mostly because of the expression it had occasioned on his companion's face. 

"A volcano." For some reason, the man had just the faintest trace of a glower between his eyebrows and at the corners of his mouth, and Kenshin got the oddest feeling that this guy was _jealous_ because he hadn't thought of the description first. "Yes, that's Sano." 

"He could see me. He was the first person I encountered after I died who could, and that meant a lot. I thought it was ironic that _I_ could not see _him_, or figure out much about him from what I sensed -- not his name, or how old he was, or anything like that... but part of the feeling I had about him, that drew me to him, was that he could help me. I felt like he had the potential -- whatever kind of magical powers you folks have that could help me, I felt like he had them -- and that he was the kind of person who'd be willing to try." 

The man had gone back to staring into the bedroom. "I can't be sure yet," he said thoughtfully, "but I think he's what we call a natural -- someone who subconsciously uses all branches of magic, and masters anything he consciously tries to learn very easily. Naturals are very rare." 

"He's certainly something special," Kenshin agreed with a nod. "If I had not found him, I have no idea where I would be now. Though," he added politely, "as you mentioned, I have you to thank for getting rid of the red mist." 

"That still wouldn't have happened without Sano," the man admitted. And now, finally, he moved away from the bedroom door, turning fully to face Kenshin and fixing him with a pointed gaze. "But there is a way you can repay the favor." 

Though Kenshin was more than a little impatient to get back to Kaoru now that the mist was gone and he'd explained himself to at least one of the people here, there was nothing to be said in response to that remark but, "I will do whatever I can." 

"I'm an exorcist." A more thorough introduction, Kenshin thought, would have been appropriate at this juncture, but the man evidently didn't agree. "Anything more I can find out about your current state would be professionally useful to me, if you wouldn't mind answering some questions." 

An exorcist, was it? Probably about as close to the polar opposite of a ghost as you could get. Perhaps it was natural, then, for Kenshin to dislike this man, so he didn't have to bother trying not to. "I'll be happy to tell you anything I can," he promised politely. 

"Come with me, then," the man commanded. And with one last glance in at the sleeping Sano, he moved away purposefully down the hall.


	48. Seeing Red Part 32

  


A number of points had Sano just a little worried when he properly regained consciousness. 

He'd been swimming through the very uncomfortable type of chaotic and incoherent half-awake dream state he generally only ever experienced when his brain was muddled by medication, which was bad enough... but usually he found himself in his _own_ bed upon his unsettled full awakening. This bed was completely unfamiliar -- and the immediate would-be cheerful thought in the back of his head that it smelled like Hajime was rather more disquieting than comforting, since he wasn't aware that he knew what Hajime smelled like. 

Similarly, he could swear up and down that he'd been hearing Kenshin's voice while he slept, much more clearly and realistically than any noise his dreams could have provided... but he didn't know what Kenshin's voice sounded like. He didn't even know where Kenshin _was_, and hadn't for... how long had it been? 

Then, something was... _off_. Something was different, something was missing. That he recognized this so distinctly and certainly, but could in no way define precisely what had changed, was frustrating and simultaneously surreal. The knowledge was barely beyond his grasp, and that made him doubt it was actually there, doubt his own senses. All but one. 

For the factor that gave him the most unease was the pain. He thought this was specifically what had awakened him, since it had been increasing for some time and must just have reached a level where he couldn't sleep through it anymore. Which made sense, since it was a raging ache that at first seemed to have his entire upper body in a hot, tight grip. As he breathed shallowly and slowly turned his head, however, he came gradually to realize that it was centered in his right shoulder. 

Actually, movement brought him a few answers. When he noticed the tiny warm body curled into an impossibly tight spiral at his side, her furry flanks expanding gently with each sleeping breath, he was convinced beyond any doubt that he was in a bed that might reasonably be expected to smell like Hajime -- whatever that might smell like. Then, the nightstand nearby was host to a green plastic bottle with a big, otherwise-blank white label across which was scrawled, as with a Sharpie on an inconveniently curved surface, _Percocet_ \-- which explained the drug dreams. 

This nightstand was -- thank god! -- on his left. Some discomfort resulted even from moving his left arm, but he could at least do so. What he couldn't do, yet, was sit up in order to avail himself of the glass of water that was neighbor to the green bottle. He _almost_ wasn't capable of getting the bottle open, one-handed, horizontal, and barely coherent as he was, but fortunately it didn't seem to be the most medically official prescription ever dispensed and lacked a child-proof lid. The viciously disgusting flavor of the two pills he fished from inside and attempted to swallow made him long for the water, but that was an unattainable ambition for now. So he lay still trying not to think about the taste in his mouth or the sensation of the bulky pain killer moving slowly down his esophagus. 

What the hell had happened to him was something he would rather like to figure out, but, though the bandages on his right shoulder seemed a good place to start, he wasn't quite up to the amount of movement or probing of the painful area that would be required to seek the answer. Instead, he concentrated on another answer he was slowly becoming aware of. 

He wasn't angry. At all. That was the large-scale change he'd been sensing since waking. He'd come so close to forgetting what it felt like not to be angry, not to have at least a little red shade tainting everything he thought or did, that it had taken him this long to recognize its absence. 

They'd done it. He was free. He was no longer haunted by a shade. 

Whether or not he was still haunted by a ghost was a different story. Where was Kenshin? Had he really been there, talking, while Sano slept? Perhaps he'd said goodbye; perhaps Sano would never see him again -- never _truly_ see him except in a ruined photograph in the office of the man that had caused his death and set all of this in motion. 

What had happened back at the Seido building? How had Sano gotten from there to Hajime's house minus shade but plus some kind of really painful injury? Had Gains perhaps decided that Sano, uncontrollably irate after absorbing so much angry energy, was a threat to security, and had him shot? And in that case, had something unpleasant happened to Hajime as well? Where _was_ Hajime? 

Logically, being in Hajime's house, Hajime's _bed_, meant that Hajime himself must be present and well enough to have arranged those circumstances. But still the thought that he as well as Sano might have been hurt at the Seido headquarters was enough to galvanize Sano into much more vigorous activity than he'd previously been planning for any time soon. He jerked the blanket aside, startling a protest out of the suddenly awakened Misao, and sat up. 

The Percocet definitely hadn't kicked in yet; the pain radiating from his shoulder made his head feel dizzy and pressurized and his stomach nauseated. But he fought through it, swiveling his legs off the side of the bed and propping himself on his left hand. 

Misao had wormed her way out of the bedding that had been thrown over her, and now was stretching toward him looking bleary and perhaps a little annoyed that he'd so abruptly interrupted her nap. Not quite ready to rise, Sano reached out the hand on which his weight had previously rested, feeling a little precarious as a result, and clumsily scratched the little ridgey area between the cat's ears. "Hey, Misao," he said. It came out in a rough whisper. "Where's your familiar?" 

She sat down beside him, eyes half open as she accepted the caress, and replied that Hajime was in the den across the hall. 

The fact that he'd perfectly understood her meow was something he would have to wonder about later. For the moment, he drew a deep breath in preparation for forcing himself to stand. This turned out to have been a mistake, for the swelling of his chest also affected the injured shoulder and left him reeling where he sat for a few pain-blinded instants. But as his legs seemed unhurt, he forced them to lift the rest of his body into an upright position. Immediately he stumbled unstably forward into the nearest wall, but he didn't seem to be in any danger of actually falling, and with such a solid guide could make his way around to the bedroom door, the hallway beyond, and the other door across from him. 

It seemed to be evening, as the house without any lights turned on was dim. A clock stood on Hajime's nightstand, but even had Sano been at a better angle to read the red numbers while looking in that direction, he'd been too focused on the pain killer to note the time. But at least there was enough fading daylight through the windows behind the couch in the den to show him the sleeping figure of Hajime. 

Against Sano's bare skin, the coolness of the doorframe that was currently supporting him after what had almost been a leap across the hall made him wonder vaguely what had happened to his shirt. But mostly he was just sagging in relief at the sight of Hajime unhurt before him. Of course the fear that Hajime might have been hurt had been a fantastic one in the first place, but that didn't make the relief less palpable, less emotionally overwhelming, or even, at this point, physically problematic. He couldn't move an inch; he was sure he really would fall to the floor this time. So he just let the painted wood continue to support him, and stared as the light faded. 

'Crush,' he feared, was no adequate term. It didn't matter that it had only been a week; he was seriously into this guy. Which was funny, since Hajime's behavior hadn't given Sano any overwhelming reason to like him. 

But he couldn't help it. Hajime was so admirably, drivingly purposeful that it was as if Sano, breathless and unable even to protest, was just caught up and swept along. Hajime always seemed to know exactly what needed to be done, and didn't hesitate to do it. Similarly, he always knew exactly what he wanted -- what he wanted to do, what he wanted to learn, what he wanted to _be_ \-- and pursued it without reference to anything or anyone. He'd chosen to work in the branch of magic he liked best rather than the one in which he had the most natural skill; he'd chosen the profession he wanted, the way of life he wanted, in spite of the overbearing desires of his family. He was all about will, all about choice, and the things he willed and chose always seemed to be fundamentally _right_. 

'Nice' wasn't exactly a word Sano would have used to describe Hajime... and yet, though he would never postulate as much aloud to the man himself, he believed that Hajime had chosen exorcism not merely because the actual work involved was interesting, but because he still wanted somehow to help people, to better lives by eliminating some of the evils that arose in them, even if those people and those lives were not really to his taste. It was a backward sort of charity that Sano probably shouldn't have found as intriguing and attractive as he did. 

Because, god, Hajime's taste... what _was_ Hajime's taste? If he _preferred_ to disdain everyone, to put on politeness like a creepy mask in order to interact with a world he wasn't interested in being a real part of just for the sake of destroying shades and then retreating... then this little infatuation of Sano's was undoubtedly hopeless. He thought they'd had some fun together; he thought Hajime had shown signs of enjoying Sano's company... but perhaps that had only been a businessman making the best of time he was forced to spend with a non-paying client in the pursuit of gathering information about a potential asset. All just professional. 

But Hajime _did_ have at least one friend; that was how Sano had interpreted the suggestion of lunch with that Chou guy, anyway. And if he had at least one friend, there was nothing saying he couldn't have at least two. And if he had at least two friends, there was nothing saying he couldn't have a boyfriend. Unless he wasn't into men at all, which was a topic of research on which Sano hadn't been able to make any progress whatsoever. Not by action, attitude, or anecdote had Hajime given a single hint as to what his sexual orientation might be. He didn't read as gay, or bisexual, or straight; he didn't read as _anything_. On that score Sano was utterly confounded, and hadn't quite had the nerve to ask outright. 

Hopeless, then? 

So long did Sano stand in the doorway of the den with eyes and thoughts directed intensely at the man on the couch that any sunlight from outside had completely faded and the Percocet had started to take effect before he remembered where he was. Misao had abandoned him at some point, having yawningly remarked that he was boring and gone back into the bedroom. And Sano had straightened, he found; as the pain had faded somewhat he'd mostly stopped leaning on the doorframe. Now he looked interestedly down at his bandaged shoulder. 

Gingerly with his left hand, he sought out the tape that held in place the outer wrap circling his shoulder and armpit. Peeling it carefully back, he was able to loosen it so as to get at the layers beneath. The bottom one was taped directly to his skin, and painful to work free far enough to see under, and even when he'd managed it he couldn't make out a thing in the current darkness. 

Returning to Hajime's bedroom and closing the door, he flipped on the light and took another look. A bathroom mirror might have been a better option, as this angle wasn't the most convenient, but he was going to lie back down in a second here and didn't feel like leaving the room again. 

He'd never been shot, and only had Hollywood's word on what a gunshot wound looked like... and on this evidence he determined that such was not the nature of this hurt. Beneath the stitches, the injury ran in a neat, perfectly straight line such as might have been formed by a precise hand holding a scalpel. 

Or an equally, or perhaps even more precise hand on the hilt of a sword. 

_"I can, easily. If you want me to stab you."_

Oddly, and maybe at least in part because the Percocet was making him a little weird in the head, his initial reaction to this discovery was weak, breathy, and nearly uncontrollable laughter as he sat down on the bed, clumsily re-sealed the tape, and re-tightened the outer layers and the wrap around his shoulder. There was, he couldn't help thinking, some irony in finding this just after he'd been reflecting on how and why he liked Hajime so damn much. 

So that was how... that was why... yes, that explained just about everything. And everything suddenly just seemed really funny and stupid. He staggered back up, with a lot more pain than sound in the breaths that expanded his chest, and moved to turn the light off and crack the door in case Misao wanted out while he slept. This last was something it was definitely time to be doing.


	49. Seeing Red Part 33

  


Necromancy, though it had turned out to be within his abilities, was nothing Hajime had ever practiced before, which meant that just about every word Kenshin had spoken yesterday had required specific concentration on Hajime's part to understand, and the entire ordeal had left him even more mentally spent than he'd already been. He'd slept long and hard, so much that he'd arisen with no clearer idea of the comfort level of the den sofa than he'd had yesterday afternoon. And now it was Saturday morning, a little later than he usually rose, and he was going through a headachy process of making breakfast for two when he wasn't quite sure when or if the second party would want it. 

The cats had remarked leadingly that the sausage smelled interesting, then been distracted from that topic by their own breakfasts, and Hajime had taken some aspirin with his coffee as he started the meal on his own, before he heard noises from the hall. Slow footsteps sounded on the wood floor toward the bathroom, the door to which opened and closed. 

Then (unsurprisingly, as Misao had galloped out of the kitchen the moment she'd detected signs of Sano's wakefulness) the bathroom door opened and closed a second time, accompanied by a grumble that sounded something like, "I've had enough of people in the bathroom with me lately." Sano would probably be equal parts relieved and irritated to learn that Kenshin usually hadn't been able to see or hear his normal activities during the period of haunting. 

A few minutes later, a rumpled-looking young man, hair plastered into a smooth slope in back so it came to a sort of jagged point at the top, entered the kitchen. Hajime, leaning against the counter beside the stove, set down his breakfast plate and braced himself. 

Sano aimed a single finger at him and said just as pointedly, "_Peacemaker Kurogane_." 

This was not at all the greeting Hajime had expected, so he just raised a brow. 

"I was in a shit-ton of pain last night," Sano explained, "because for some reason it kinda looks like somebody might have _stabbed me with a sword_..." He paused with a frown. "And I swear I've heard that in a movie somewhere. Anyway, every time the Percocet wore off, I got up and wandered around for a little before the next one kicked in and I could sleep again. And I was looking through your shelves, and I discovered your dirty little secret." 

"Where you've heard my name before?" 

"Well, yeah, that too, but I mean that you like anime. Yes, Misao, hi. Sorry I wouldn't let you in the bathroom. Good morning." Though the little cat had been meowing nonstop for Sano's attention, she didn't actually have anything to say; so once he'd satisfied her by bending briefly, stiffly, to pet her, she shut up and headed for Tokio's food bowl in case her elder had left anything behind for her to steal. 

Hajime wasn't going to point out that, to have been looking through the shelves his DVD's were kept on, Sano would have to have been in the den -- hovering near the sleeping Hajime, in other words, which was something the waking Hajime didn't really want to discuss. So he just said, "I like some anime. Sometimes." 

"Yeah, well, you made it sound before like you thought it was all stupid or something. But this is a series _I've_ even seen -- because my name's in there too -- and here _you_ have it on DVD, and I remember now it has you in it, seeing ghosts and everything." 

Hajime didn't feel like checking the inordinate amount of pleasure Sano was taking in this perceived triumph; in fact, he had to smile a bit at the suggestion that he himself actually featured in the series in question, and the indirect idea that he'd been named after an anime character rather than the historic figure that character represented. He did feel the need to point out, however, "All I implied before was that getting all your Japanese culture from anime was stupid." 

"Yeah, OK, fine." Sano started to shrug, winced visibly with an audible intake of breath, and canceled whatever he'd been planning on saying next. Hajime thought it was something about never having been to Japan, but couldn't be entirely sure when the walls were up. 

"Do you want breakfast?" He turned toward where he'd kept the second half of the meal warm. "It's eggs and rice with sausage." 

"Is that your way of apologizing for stabbing me in the shoulder?" Sano wondered, stepping forward to join Hajime at the stove and look down into the pan. 

"It might be," said Hajime neutrally. He couldn't quite bring himself to apologize for something he really had believed was necessary, but he _was_ sorry that so much discomfort had been the unavoidable result. 

Sano's immediate, "Then I accept," came as a bit of a surprise, and Hajime turned just as quickly to search the young man's face for any insincerity, for suppressed resentment. He found none. Moreover, Sano gave him half a grin and continued in a quieter tone, "It's kindof extreme, but you wouldn't have done it if you didn't think you had to. It hurts like all kinds of hell, but..." Apparently he barely remembered in time to restrain a second shrug. "It's kinda cool too." 

Hajime didn't bother trying not to feel intensely relieved at this reaction. "Idiot." 

"Yeah, well..." Sano's grin twisted to demonstrate just how much pain he was still in -- as if Hajime couldn't already tell. "I'll probably punch you in the face for it next time I'm mad. And don't do it again, OK?" 

"I'll try not to." Hajime gestured to the dishes he'd set out for Sano's use and changed the subject. "I have coffee or orange juice, if you're interested. Or there's water. I don't recommend mixing beer with pills." 

"Yeah, I'm already spacey enough. Though it's not so bad when I'm not laying down. Uh, water sounds good. I think orange juice or coffee would make me sick right now." 

Though Hajime had previously been eating bachelor-style standing up beside the stove, he now transferred his things to the dining table beyond the doorway out of the kitchen while Sano dished himself the remainder of the breakfast mess and filled his cup from the tap. When he joined Hajime at the table, Tokio immediately took up a place beside his chair and started demanding that he give her sausage. 

Hajime vetoed this with, "It's not good for cats." Then to Sano he remarked, "Those stitches have to stay in for at least a week. I'll pay for you to see a doctor, since I assume you won't want to go back to the U.S.Seido on-site surgeon." 

"Guh, yeah, was _that_ who put these in?" said Sano through a full mouth. "I mean, not like he didn't do a good job or anything, but..." He shook his head. "I guess a yakuza _would_ have a surgeon on their payroll just hanging around, wouldn't they..." When Hajime nodded, he added, "No wonder that Percocet bottle looks so black-market." 

Hajime didn't bother to mention that he'd double checked with Gains how quickly a qualified medical professional could be summoned before going through with his extreme measures; nor that he'd rubbed down the end of his sword, before touching Sano with it, with some chlorhexidine solution he hadn't wanted to ask why Gains had on hand; nor did he wonder what Sano's prior experience with black-market Percocet might be. He just reached out at a hand in the next convenient interval and touched the startled Sano's forehead. 

"You don't feel feverish," he said as he compared the temperature with his own. 

"Nah," said Sano, recovering quickly from his surprise. "Just in pain and kinda stupid." 

Hajime forbore from taking advantage of this opening, and continued his breakfast in silence. 

Presently Sano asked, "You got any ketchup for this?" 

With a skeptical look, Hajime gestured wordlessly toward the refrigerator in the next room. 

"Oh, I see how it is," said Sano as he rose. "Apology only goes so far." 

"Any moron who wants to ruin good cooking with ketchup can go get his own." 

"And yet I see you _have_ ketchup here." The grin was audible in Sano's voice as he made what he believed was a clever follow-up to this remark: "What I _haven't_ seen yet is any good cooking." 

Hajime snorted faintly. Then he ignored the casual way Sano, upon returning to the table, picked a piece of sausage off his plate and offered it to Tokio. _Then_ he ignored the laughing way Sano, having thus mortally offended Misao, dug out an even bigger piece for her by way of amends. It wasn't improbable that each cat would find she didn't like sausage very much anyway. 

"That's an interesting tattoo you have," the exorcist said at last, thinking of the shirtless, muscular back that had just been turned on him as Sano had rummaged through the fridge. 

"Oh!" Sano started, then winced as the motion must have hurt his injury. It was clear he'd completely forgotten about his tattoo, or at least never considered that Hajime would have seen it by now. At the same time, Hajime was picking up on some embarrassment on the topic strong enough to leak through the barriers in Sano's head. "Uh, yeah..." 

Pursuing this advantage, "You must really think you're a badass," Hajime said with a smirk. 

"I _am_ a badass," replied Sano defiantly. "And you better have a new shirt for me." 

"Somehow I got the feeling that one you had on yesterday wasn't exactly one of your favorites. Tokio, stop that." Having, as Hajime had expected, deemed the sausage uneatable, she'd been trying to bury it, and the scraping of her paws on the wood floor was getting annoying. Neither the cat's behavior nor Sano's attempt at changing the subject, however, could keep Hajime from centering right back on the real topic at hand. "What in the world made you think it was a good idea to put the kanji for 'evil' permanently on your back? Especially that big?" 

Shifting abashedly and looking at his plate, Sano explained. "Well, I'd just turned eighteen _and_ gotten a pretty big tax return... I wanted to do something that would prove I was an adult and... an individual... and all that... I thought some kanji or other would be a good way to, you know, express my Japanese heritage or whatever... and this one looked cool... and plus it was kindof a rebellion against my parents, since they think only bad people get tattoos at all..." 

Glancing up and finding Hajime still smirking at him, Sano frowned and went on in a more serious tone. "I can't be sorry for the kind of person I was in the past, even if I _did_ decide to write it really big on my back for some reason. You don't get where you are without having been where you were." 

Impressed that Sano had made it through that last verbal tangle, Hajime withheld his remark that he didn't believe the young man nearly as far removed from the rebellious teenager phase as Sano himself apparently did. He merely nodded his agreement with the totally just sentiment. 

Now Sano was blushing faintly. "Plus it still looks cool," he mumbled in conclusion. Following up a quick shoveling of the last of his breakfast into his mouth with a long gulp of water, he rose hastily and added, "I need to go take some more Percocet."


	50. Seeing Red Part 34

  


The first thing Sano had to say when he came back into the kitchen where Hajime was loading the dishwasher was, "Where's Kenshin, by the way?" He'd been so distracted by Hajime himself that he hadn't gotten around to asking. Which was funny, when Kenshin was so important, but, Sano supposed, not exactly unprecedented. 

"He went back to his wife," Hajime answered. "I told him we'd meet him there to help him talk to her as soon as you were feeling up to it." 

Sano would have remarked, 'As soon as you find me a shirt to wear,' but feared that would lead back to the topic of his tattoo. So instead he said, "I'm glad he's doing OK now." 

"If you call being dead 'doing OK.'" 

"Better than being dead _and_ breaded with someone else's crazy anger." 

Hajime laughed. 

"Did you get to talk to him? About the afterlife and everything, I mean? Find out all sorts of stuff that'll make Aoshi totally jealous?" 

Closing the dishwasher with what Sano thought was unnecessary firmness, Hajime looked annoyed. "Aoshi... I'm going to have to call him, aren't I." 

"You _did_ promise," Sano reminded him, though not without sympathy. And then a much-belated thought struck him in response to the word 'call.' "Hang on," he said with a frown of his own. "What time is it?" Starting to panic just a little, he spun completely around, searching the kitchen for a clock. 

"9:24," said Hajime, and then -- Sano could sense and guess more than see that this was the case -- watched in amused skepticism as Sano began frantically patting down his pockets and cursing. 

Remembering eventually that he'd seen some of his personal effects on the nightstand, beside the clock that might have prevented this disaster if he'd taken note of it earlier, Sano hastily left the kitchen. Trying not to think about the necessity of Hajime's having put his hands into Sano's pants pockets in order to empty them of wallet, keys, and cell phone so Sano could sleep more easily, he ran to the nightstand and grabbed the last of these items. 

It was dead, of course. These days, if he didn't charge it overnight, that was always the case in the morning. He swore. 

"You had a couple of texts yesterday," Hajime volunteered from where he'd followed to the doorway of the bedroom and now was watching Sano's frustrated efforts at getting his phone to turn on. "It seems like your excuses for not going out with your friends lately haven't been very good." 

"No, they haven't," Sano agreed. "I've been saving all my good excuses and terrible lies for right now this very minute. Can I use your phone?" 

With a smirk Hajime retrieved it from his pocket and handed it to Sano. Then he walked away, presumably to offer some privacy, and soon after Sano heard what sounded like the front door. Privacy was unlikely, however, as two cats had entered the room, taken a seat on the bed, and were now watching him with interest. He turned his back on them and, after the few seconds it took to dredge up a number he usually relied on programmed contacts to remember, called work. 

No less than eight minutes and one somewhat disastrous climbing cat adventure later, he went back into the kitchen and returned the phone to its owner, who was now sorting through what must be yesterday's mail. With a sigh Sano leaned against a nearby counter and said, "Well, I don't _think_ they'll fire me. Sucks for them I know it's more trouble to train another new maintenance guy than put up with this kind of bullshit from me... but the manager who's in there right now is _pissed_. 

"He wouldn't believe I got in a huge fight and got stabbed and then I was too high on Percocet to call two hours early this morning like you're supposed to. I'm going to shove this shoulder and all these stupid bruises in his face the next time I see him. God, and it's going to _suck_ working with this," he added with a groan. "You know how much lifting I have to do? I can barely even _move_ this arm yet." 

"The Seido doctor wanted to put it in a sling," Hajime informed him, not looking up from the mail, "but I didn't think you'd appreciate that." 

Sano thought about it, and decided he was probably right. He preferred even a slight amount of usability, painful though it was, to having that arm completely immobile. Work was still going to hurt for a while, though. 

"This may help if you do get fired," was Hajime's next statement, handing Sano an envelope. 

With what the exorcist was currently doing in mind, Sano was for an instant extremely confused; but then he saw that the envelope was entirely blank and realized that Hajime had not, in fact, randomly given Sano some of his own mail. He pulled the unsealed flap out from where it was tucked, and extracted the contents. Observing the back of what was clearly a check, he flipped the little piece of grey-blue paper around and examined it. 

The elbow he'd propped against the counter (the left elbow, of course) slipped somehow, and he staggered sideways, then forward. It took a surprising amount of time and effort to catch himself and reach a balanced upright position again. 

"Holy _fuck_!" he managed finally from right in the center of the kitchen. The vehemence of the exclamation startled Misao, who had already retreated to the doorway when he'd stumbled, into darting into the hall and out of sight. 

"Gains wrote one for each of us," explained Hajime, who was clearly entertained at Sano's astonishment. "I did remind him what my actual rates are, but I didn't try very hard to argue him down." 

"Holy fuck," Sano said again, staring unblinking at the digits in the box. Just in case he might suspect that the amount was written incorrectly, there it was in letters on the adjacent line too. He knew that at some point his mind would start racing over all the possibilities that came with this much money, but at the moment it was mostly blank with shock. 

"You'll note it's dated the 26th." Hajime, finished with his mail, was now just looking at Sano as he held up a matching unlabeled envelope that presumably held his share of the absurd payoff of yesterday's adventure. "Gains isn't stupid. He warned me that if we played some kind of hypnotic trick on him to make him feel better just temporarily, it would be in our best interest not to attempt to cash these. But if the next week goes by and he hasn't had any kind of relapse -- which, of course, he won't -- the money will be there." 

Sano's tone was still breathless with disbelief as he wondered, "You sure he wasn't just completely lying? I mean, this is-- shit! This is a fuckload of money here! And he wrote _another_ one for you? Who _has_ that kind of money?" 

"He wasn't lying." Hajime shrugged. "Of course he might change his mind between now and next week, but he was sincere enough at the time. He was mentally exhausted and not guarding very well." 

"Oh?" Sano was interested, but he couldn't look away from the check in his hand even as he spoke. "What else did you pick up from him?" 

"Among other things, that Enishi knew he was going to die. Gains didn't know _how_ Enishi knew, but he was sure he did." Now Hajime set down the envelope and walked across the room. Pausing at the door, he added, "It was another yakuza member who assassinated him, by the way. We both guessed that, but Gains's thoughts confirmed it." 

Sano followed him almost without realizing what he did. But he forced himself to tear his eyes from the check in order to navigate the hallway, and in doing so was also able to participate a little better in the conversation. "So Enishi saw that coming, and that was probably why he did that shit to Kaoru and Kenshin just before." 

Hajime nodded in grim agreement as he stepped into his bedroom and went to open the closet. 

"Do you think he knew Kenshin would become a ghost?" 

"I don't know," Hajime said slowly. "If he was a diviner, he might have. And if he did, it makes his revenge less limited than we thought." 

"You know... I bet... I bet that wasn't even the revenge he really wanted. Just the best he could do on short notice when he realized someone in the organization was going to kill him. I bet he had something a thousand times worse in mind, but he just couldn't pull it off in the time he had left." 

"You may be right. Here." 

Between thinking about crazy Enishi and horrible revenge and the check that seemed to be burning hot in his hand, Sano had noticed neither what Hajime was doing in the closet nor what that closet contained -- and the latter, he realized now, was something he really was quite interested in and should have looked into last night during his painful interludes of aimless snooping around. Now the time it had taken to work through his distractions, and to realize that what Hajime held out toward him was a shirt, had been long enough for the exorcist to have closed the closet door and prevented Sano's seeing anything inside. 

"Thanks," said Sano a little blankly, accepting the offering. A moment passed before it even occurred to him to examine it, but, to his disappointment, the scenario that popped into his head at the same time -- wherein Hajime had nothing but nice dressy stuff he didn't want to give Sano, and therefore had been forced to dig back to the back of his closet where he kept all the embarrassing remnants of his youth like hair-band concert shirts, one of which Sano now held -- did not appear to be playing out. It was merely a short-sleeved and rather casual-looking black button-up. He did wonder what kind of music Hajime liked, though. 

"Soundtracks," said Hajime succinctly, with twitching lips. In a bit of non sequitur he went on, "Oh, and Gains formally apologized for any offensive remarks he might have made under the influence of shade anger." 

As he sought the least painful method of pulling the right sleeve onto his arm and shoulder, Sano snorted. "Funny how that doesn't make him less of a homophobic dick." 

"The truth about people comes out when they're that angry. It's one of the reasons red shades are such a problem; people don't _want_ that kind of truth coming out." 

Glad that Hajime had stepped away so Sano now had his back to him, and therefore the exorcist couldn't see his concerned biting of lip at this statement, Sano recalled uncomfortably that _he'd_ been even angrier than Gains on a few occasions in Hajime's presence; he'd been stupid and irrational and violent, and he would really rather not have it known how much he suddenly feared Hajime thinking this was his true nature. 

But Hajime either read the thought -- he'd picked up that one about music just a bit ago, after all -- or guessed it some other way. "Don't worry," he said. "All I've learned about you is that you're an idiot. And I could have figured _that_ out without any help." 

Deeply relieved, relaxing from a tenseness he hadn't even realized he'd adopted -- actually, that was probably what had given him away, and it also hurt his shoulder -- Sano grinned. "You know, there's no shade left to get me to work off... you don't _have_ to keep calling me an idiot." 

"It seems to have stuck, though. Everyone needs a nickname." 

The buttoning process was slow and painful with a right arm that would really rather not move at all, but Sano continued to grin anyway. Because a nickname, however rude, implied a continued acquaintance. Friendship, even. Maybe? He sought to test the theory: "I'll have to come up with something just as nice to call you, then." 

And Hajime was definitely smiling as he replied, "Let me know when you decide on something." He took two more steps away, apparently in preparation for leaving the room. "Your shoes are on the other side of the bed. Are you ready to go meet Kenshin?" 

Still fumbling with buttons, Sano answered that he would be as soon as he'd had a chance to fix his hair, then listened to Hajime's footfalls moving around the house. Some too-low-to-be-intelligible exchange with at least one of the cats in another room reminded him that he'd forgotten to bring up the matter of an apparent communication skill he'd never realized he had, but that could wait for another time. At the moment he was too busy for it -- too busy reflecting that maybe things weren't quite as hopeless as he'd been thinking they must be.


	51. Plastic Part 6

  


Business important enough to force a meeting to convene on a Saturday would always be sufficient to drive just about anything else from Quatre's head, so he'd mostly forgotten about the talking doll. However, the moment he got out of the airport and into his car (for the second time that day) and his cell informed him that he had missed calls and voicemail, he remembered everything. 

The message was from a friend, inviting him out this evening, and Quatre deleted it without even listening all the way through. The other caller, as usual, hadn't bothered leaving a message, and Quatre immediately returned the call. 

"Are you coming back over here or going straight home?" Heero wanted to know. 

Quatre laughed, his mind again full of the enthusiastic interest Duo had inspired yesterday evening. As if he would go home at this point! "Have you figured out that doll yet?" he asked eagerly. Then, realizing he hadn't answered the question, appended, "I'm definitely going there." 

"No," Heero answered Quatre's badly-placed query. "Not exactly. But I've got something to show you." 

"I'm just getting on the highway," Quatre informed him. "I'll see you in about fifteen minutes." And the rest of his trip to Heero's apartment was conducted in mighty impatience. 

"How was your meeting?" Heero greeted him at the door when Quatre arrived. 

"I think we may have things straightened out over there," answered Quatre. "But I can't think about that right now; what did you want to show me?" 

Wordlessly Heero gestured him to follow. 

As they moved through the living room, Duo spoke up from where he still sat on the end table wrapped in a paper towel. "Hey, Quatre." He was watching TV. At least, Quatre assumed he was watching; it was difficult to tell. 

"Hi." It felt strange to be casually greeted by what was essentially a Ken doll, and even stranger to return the greeting as if it were perfectly normal. 

Heero didn't stop, but led Quatre through to the second bedroom, where he pointed at the chair that stood out from the desk. "Last night I tried searching for talking dolls, and didn't find anything," he stated as Quatre took the seat as instructed. "But look at what I found today." 

He'd left a number of sites open in multiple tabs, in addition to a search engine, and dutifully Quatre rifled through them. 

"Magic?" he wondered. Heero had searched for magic on the internet? _Heero Yuy_ had looked up sites about _magic_? 

Glancing over one after another, Quatre grew more and more interested and surprised. Because these weren't the type of sites he would have expected on the subject -- badly-constructed personal pages hosted by giant, disreputable free servers rattling on with poor syntax about cosmic mysteries in dark blue text on starry black backgrounds. These were articles and journals and archives such as he might have found if he'd searched for knitting or golfing or sudoku or a thousand other hobbies, and they looked every bit as legitimate. 

"'Magical cooking requires less kitchen space,'" he read aloud. "'The fallacy of magic/computer incompatibility.' 'Magical security systems: cheaper than traditional alarm systems, but are they as effective?' 'How common artifacts form and what they're used for.' Well." 

"Yeah," Heero said. 

Still staring at the screen, Quatre sat back in the chair and ran his hands through his hair. "Well," he said again. "Either this is the biggest and most dedicated collection of nerds in the world, or magic is the worst-kept secret of the twenty-first century." 

"Yeah." 

Quatre continued to gaze almost absently at the list of 'common artifacts,' trying to decide how he felt about this, while Heero stood behind him without moving or speaking. 

Finally Heero said, "I still don't know that I believe him." 

Slowly Quatre shook his head. "Me neither. But this certainly is... interesting." 

"Yeah," Heero said a third time. Another few moments passed in silence before he spoke again. "Let me show you one more thing." 

Quatre relinquished the chair and watched as Heero pulled up something he'd evidently bookmarked earlier. Without a word he stood again and gestured Quatre to resume the seat and look. 

"'Magical Help Forum,'" Quatre read. Looking past the moderators' note advising new members to read the rules and check the 'Frequently Miscast Spells' list before posting, he clicked on the first thread. 

_Help!_ the post said. _My dog wouldnt stop barking at the guy fixing our sprinklers so I cast a silence on him and now I can't get it off!! He tries to bark or whine and no sound comes out! I tried a spell to clear out other spells, and one of those 'Put this back to how it was a certain point spells, even just a spell to make things louder, but nothing works, what am I doing wrong?_

The first reply read, _do u use artifacts?_ The second requested the exact wording of all the spells attempted by the poster so far. The third remarked, _Sounds like artifact interference to me_. 

Quatre didn't read any farther, but rather turned to look at Heero again. The latter was watching with arms folded and a dark, pensive expression; Quatre knew exactly what he was thinking. "It couldn't hurt," he agreed with the unspoken sentiment. 

They switched places again, since Heero seemed even more interested than he professed in writing the post. He certainly was getting into this; Quatre didn't think Heero had ever posted anything in an online forum in his life. Actually, he wouldn't have thought there was anything in the world that could ever induce Heero to post anything in an online forum. Quatre leaned over his shoulder, watching as he went about setting up a new account. 

"Screen name?" Heero prompted. 

"Just shove some random words together," Quatre shrugged, "and throw some numbers on it." He started listing unrelated words as they came to mind. "Space... heart... wing... zero..." 

Heero muttered something about not wanting to spell out a number and then put digits after it, and entered 'spaceheart4321.' 

Quatre nodded his approval. "Better check the 'Frequently Miscast Spells' list before you post." 

"I looked at it earlier," Heero replied, starting a new post. "It's all domestic stuff: hair-dyeing and clothes-washing and..." He trailed off as he began typing. 

_Have found talking doll that claims to be cursed human from 1800's. Please advise._

"I think you're going to have to give more details than that," laughed Quatre. 

Heero frowned, and mumbled, "I feel like an idiot going into detail." 

"Nobody knows who you are," Quatre reminded him. "If this is for real, they'll want the details anyway... and if it's all a joke, they'll just think you have a great imagination." 

A little reluctantly, Heero nodded and began rewriting his message. This time, with some prodding from Quatre, he managed to include everything relevant besides names and places -- including the specifics of Duo's story and their own skepticism on the subject. Even after proofreading it twice, though, he hit the 'post' button rather hesitantly. 

Quatre stood straight, looking around at the door and listening to the sound of the television from the next room. "I guess that's all there is to be done right now," he said. 

Heero nodded slowly; as he rose from the desk, his eyes seemed locked on the monitor. Quatre noticed this was the only part of the computer he turned off before moving into the hall. 

They sat on the couch in the living room for approximately two minutes, not quite long enough to ascertain what Duo was watching, before Heero stirred and made a movement as if to rise. 

Once again Quatre knew exactly what he was thinking. Smiling and putting out a hand to stop him he said, "Give people a chance to respond." Heero subsided. 

"What are you two up to?" Duo wondered. As Heero opened his mouth to reply he added hastily, "I know, I know, none of my business. But you never realize the value of being able to just get up and walk into another room whenever you want until you lose it." 

Maybe Heero was right; maybe Quatre was starting to believe all of this. Whatever the case, he found himself far less inclined to laugh at this just complaint than he would have been yesterday.


	52. Seeing Red Part 35

Another triumph Sano appeared to be taking pleasure in that Hajime didn't feel like thwarting was that this time they'd called ahead before showing up at Kaoru's apartment. It didn't really relate to not having done so the last time, nor make Hajime regret that circumstance, but Sano seemed to think it did. 

When she opened the door to them -- today without hesitation -- Hajime noted that Kaoru looked every bit as weary as she had two days ago, but that in her dark-ringed eyes there was also the faintest trace of hope. He hadn't told her that her husband was, as far as he knew, already here, but he had mentioned that he and Sano brought news as good as anything that could be expected out of this situation. 

"Come in," she said at once. "Sit down." 

The apartment was sparsely furnished and decorated, and Hajime speculated that Kaoru had lacked the energy or desire, when she'd moved, to set up all the things she'd brought from the house she'd shared with her husband. Additionally, the current state of cleanliness was not the best -- Hajime, whose own housekeeping was more or less impeccable, couldn't help but notice -- and, once again, absence of will and energy in disaster's wake was probably to blame. He wondered whether she was struggling financially as well; he remembered her saying she worked from home, but had she been in any fit mental state for that since Kenshin's death? 

Two other people were present in the small, drab living room: the red-haired child they'd seen from afar the other day at the park, and that child's red-haired, undead father. Not that the redness of Kenshin's hair was visible in his current state, but it was easy to imagine. He had apparently been watching his son play with a couple of tiny police cars beside the couch, but now they both looked over at Hajime and Sano. Up close, Hajime thought he could see a resemblance to both parents in the child's face. 

"Hey, Kenji," Kaoru said, with a decent facade of joviality over the dullness in her voice, "I'm going to move you into your room to keep playing, OK?" And with impressive ease she scooped up both the three-year-old and his toys and carried them out of the room. 

Hajime, as had been suggested, found a seat in the chair beside the sofa, but Sano had approached Kenshin with obvious interest. "Hey!" he was saying. "Good to finally see you at last!" He made a face at the redundancy of his statement, but did not amend it. 

"Yes, it is," agreed Kenshin warmly. "I would shake your hand, but..." Instead, he bowed in the Japanese style. "Ageku yoroshiku." And once Sano had repeated that last word with a grin, Kenshin went on, "Now I can apologize for all the trouble I have given you in particular." 

Sano, who unsurprisingly didn't appear to need to expend much effort to understand everything Kenshin said, started to lift his right hand, winced, and made his dismissive wave with the left instead. "Don't worry about it." 

"And I can thank you for all your hard work." 

The lop-sided grin on Sano's face said pretty clearly (to Hajime, at least), _"You don't have any idea how much trouble and hard work it's actually been."_ What he said aloud was, "No problem." So apparently he did have _some_ understanding of professionalism. 

"I wanted to wait for you to wake up yesterday," Kenshin said next, apologetically, "but I was too impatient to come back here." 

"I was a little loopy whenever I _did_ wake up, so it's probably better you didn't." Sano added at a mutter, "I'm not exactly super awake right now, actually..." Which was true: all earlier interaction with Hajime and apparent energy notwithstanding, Sano had been dozing in the car on the way over. How much he'd taken in of Hajime relating what Kenshin had told him last night could not be guessed. 

Politely Kenshin said, "I hope you are feeling all right, though," with a brief glance at the exorcist. Hajime had eventually been required to explain to the ghost what he'd been forced to do to Sano, and Kenshin had never seemed quite approving. Not that it was any of his business. 

"Yeah... except for the one little thing--" and here Sano too threw a glance at Hajime, though his accusation was far more facetious than Kenshin's-- "I'm actually better than before. No offense, but I'm looking forward to getting back to school without taking you with me." 

Kenshin had a very gentle smile that was probably a manifestation of the kindness Kaoru had always liked so much about her husband, but that Hajime couldn't help considering irritatingly wishy-washy. 

Now Kaoru herself reappeared in the doorway, and seemed a little confused when she saw Sano standing in the middle of the living room with the manner of one involved in conversation but turned half away from the only other person she could see. When she realized what this must mean, her eyes flew to Kenshin (or, from her perspective, the empty air where she assumed he must be), and her hands flew simultaneously to her mouth. 

"Could you let her know I'm here?" Kenshin requested quietly. 

Resisting the urge to point out that Kaoru had clearly already realized this, Hajime let Sano do the honors. 

"Yeah, he's here," the young man said, turning toward the woman. "And we can talk to him now. The shade's all gone." 

Kaoru's breathing abruptly became unsteady, as if she was fighting off sobs. Continuing to stare toward her husband, she finally let her hands sink from before her face, though they clasped and remained just in front of her neck in a classic dramatic pose. Hesitantly and with evident difficulty she began, "Kenshin, I... I don't..." Then glancing at Sano she asked, "Can he hear me?" 

Moving in his wife's direction, Kenshin said her name in a pitying tone. 

Hajime answered before Sano could. "He can. And I know there are things you need to say to each other, but I think it would be better if we told you what we've learned before you two become too emotional." 

Kaoru, glancing again at where Kenshin had been before he'd come closer to her, took a deep breath and nodded. Then, with reluctant movements, she walked over to the sofa and sat down; her husband went to hover by her elbow. This left the other half of the couch unoccupied, but Sano opted to mirror Kenshin and come stand near Hajime's chair. The exorcist considered offering to trade places with him, to let Sano sit and rest while they talked, but, doubting Sano would really appreciate being treated like an invalid and thinking there wasn't really time to waste right now annoying him deliberately, decided against it. 

Kaoru was watching them both closely -- not, Hajime thought, because she was the least bit interested in anything either of them might do for its own sake, but because she wanted to follow their gazes to determine where Kenshin was. 

"Mrs. Himura," Hajime began. "I spent a lot of time talking to your husband yesterday, but it was mostly about subjects that are professionally interesting to me. I saved the information Sano and I learned to tell you both at the same time." When Kaoru nodded again, he went on. "The anger that was keeping us from talking to him, and that affected you so unpleasantly in January and February, was not your husband's at all." 

"Did you think it was?" asked the startled Kenshin. 

"Yeah," Sano provided. "For a while we thought you were just really mad at her." 

Briefly everything became incoherent as Kaoru first wondered what Sano meant, then realized he'd been answering a question she hadn't heard, then started crying about how it was only natural for Kenshin to be mad at her -- and Kenshin, all the while, tried futilely to reassure her that he wasn't and never had been angry. He kept trying to touch her, obviously with no great success. 

Hajime eventually cut them both off by stating loudly, "We'll get to all that in a minute. The person who actually left behind the angry shade when he died was Enishi Yukishiro." 

The name, rather than Hajime's volume, was what really silenced the Himuras. Kenshin went stiff and wordless in an instant, clearly extremely startled; Kaoru looked blank. 

"Since you obviously don't know," Hajime addressed Kaoru alone, "Enishi was the brother of Kenshin's first wife." 

Kaoru blinked once, twice, then simply stared; the blankness hadn't really gone. Kenshin's eyes, on the other hand, slowly closed as he bowed his head in a movement that was almost a nod of understanding and had a touch of resignation to it as well. Under other circumstances, Hajime might have given Kenshin this news separately and confirmed how much he wanted shared with others before telling anyone else; but in this case, Hajime felt Kaoru had a right to the information regardless of Kenshin's feelings on the subject. 

"Enishi..." Kenshin murmured. "Enishi. I never thought I would hear from him again." 

"Kenshin's..." Kaoru spoke in the tone of someone trying her hardest to remain completely rational and neutral, and she managed _fairly_ well. "Kenshin's first wife." 

"He never could forgive me for--" the ghost was recalling, but cut himself short in order to say regretfully, "I would have told you; I _would_ have told you." 

Again Hajime jumped in before this could go any farther. "Kenshin's first wife died ten years ago in a car accident, and her brother blamed Kenshin for it." 

"No reason to try to exonerate me," said Kenshin quietly. "It was my fault. Enishi had an unhealthy obsession with his sister, yes, but his belief that I killed her was completely accurate." 

Hajime paused for a moment before, deciding this was relevant enough to transmit, he said, "Kenshin wants it understood that he agrees it was his fault." 

"Oh, Kenshin." Kaoru was crying again, and Hajime thought it had something to do with the discovery that she wasn't the only one in this marriage to have committed (or at least to consider herself guilty of) mariticide. 

In conjunction with what he'd already known, Hajime relayed what he'd just found out: "Enishi was obsessed with his sister, and never could forgive Kenshin for her death. He was the one who organized the events that led to Kenshin's death, and when Enishi himself died, it was his leftover anger that surrounded Kenshin and made him impossible to communicate with." 

"How did Enishi die?" Kenshin wondered. 

"So the..." Kaoru said at the same moment. "The man who threatened my son... and made me murder my husband... is dead?" 

"He was killed by another member of his criminal organization," Hajime nodded. 

Kaoru started to sob. She probably felt as if she was in the center of a web of murder and intrigue, and no better than anyone else tangled in it. 

"I need to talk to her," Kenshin said somewhat desperately. "Face to face. Sano, I think I can see how I might be able to, if you would do me this one last favor..." 

What Hajime wanted to say, accusingly, was, _"You didn't mention yesterday that you'd figured out how to possess people."_ But somehow what came out of his mouth instead, concernedly, was, "Sano's in no condition to try that." Which was odd, because he usually didn't have that kind of intention/delivery mismatch. 

It didn't matter anyway; one look at Sano's face told him that. The stubborn, reckless young man had even remarked once (well, thought loudly) that it would be cool to be able to say he'd been possessed. Now he stepped forward with, "Yeah, sure." 

"I am afraid," Kenshin said levelly, glancing at Hajime as he responded to his protest, "that it would not work with you." 

So at least Hajime knew he'd been right in thinking that he and Kenshin, only barely acquainted though they were, didn't really like each other. How much it would mean if this procedure ended in disaster he didn't know, but at least he had that slight consolation to bolster him.


	53. Seeing Red Part 36

  


Kenshin's first wife. 

The man that had threatened her son was dead. 

Criminal organization. 

Kaoru was so overcome with such a variety of emotions and accompanying ideas that trying to get hold of herself took most of her attention, and she didn't mark what was going on in the room for several moments. Since she was unable in any case to detect her husband's presence or hear his contributions to the conversation, it could be no surprise that she didn't take much trouble to try to follow the latter once she had so much to think about. 

But now Sano was approaching where she sat on the couch, and something had changed. 

Little as she had wanted to believe these men, a combination of logic and intuition had dictated that she must... but there'd always been a part of her that had treated this as a sort of sick game she was playing to distract herself, and that wouldn't have been surprised to find the whole thing an elaborate hoax (though it would simultaneously have been interested to discover what benefit the perpetrators could possibly derive from such a deception). Overall, though, she'd been taking this very seriously. 

She hadn't been at all prepared for certainty, though. 

When Sano dropped to his knees in front of her and said, "My lady," it didn't matter that it was _possible_ he was just a really good actor that had somehow found out the nickname her husband used to call her in private, and it didn't matter that she barely knew Sano at all -- she was _certain_, instantly freed from _any_ doubt, that this was not Sano. The inflection of those two words, the expression on his face, especially the eyes -- though nothing was _physically_ altered, and though anyone that did know Sano would easily have recognized him, still everything had changed. 

And that certainty burned away her tears, eradicated her discomposure, and left her with only the adrenaline calm of emergency. There was no time to waste dithering now. 

"Kenshin," she said. 

He took her hands. "It is difficult to begin a conversation I know has to end with me leaving you, but I had to talk to you one more time." 

She didn't know what to say. She couldn't ask him not to go, though that was the desire of her heart; and the painful joy of talking to him again, of being granted this chance, this goodbye, was too great for expression. 

"I would have told you about Tomoe, my first wife," he went on. "That was not something I planned on hiding from you forever." 

That _he_ was apologizing to _her_ seemed farcical, under the circumstances, and she shook her head. This wasn't how she'd envisioned a conversation like this going. 

"And I want you to know that the reason I didn't tell you was not that I didn't trust you or didn't want to share myself with you. It was because..." He too shook his head. 

Even with as few words as he'd spoken thus far, Kaoru had already mostly lost track of the fact that it was actually Sano's voice saying them, Sano's head being shaken, Sano's hands clasping hers. In a sense not precisely visual or aural but very definitely real, Sano had mostly melted away. It was like forgetting about the device she held during an intense phone conversation; the means of connection was irrelevant in the face of that connection. 

"After my reckless driving killed Tomoe," Kenshin finally went on, "I felt like a murderer. For the next few years, every time I looked in the mirror and saw the scars from that accident, I hated myself as much as Tomoe's brother ever could hate me. But then I met you, and you looked at my scars and said, 'Anyone who doesn't think scars are beautiful has never survived any pain of their own and become stronger because of it.'" 

Kaoru laughed weakly along with her husband as he added, "And I know you got that line from a movie, but what mattered to me was that you _meant_ it. You always saw the good I could become and never worried about what I was before. You made me feel like it was all right to go on living and enjoying life even after what I had done. And I felt like I had to do whatever I could to leave behind the person I once was and try every single day to be more worthy of somehow having found love a second time." 

"I never thought you--" Kaoru paused with a faint smile and corrected herself. "I never _would have_ thought you weren't worthy of that. You're a wonderful person, Kenshin -- a good, great, kind, thoughtful, wonderful person." 

For her smile he returned that one of his that was so beautifully mellow and yet, as it often had been in life, faintly sad. "Thank you. You were always making me feel like that, like I _could_ be better. I was more and more at peace with myself the longer I spent with you, and I decided that as soon as I reached a point where the past no longer hurt quite so much, I would tell you all about Tomoe and how much you had changed me. It was no secret, just... something I wasn't quite ready to share yet." 

"I never worried about the things you didn't tell me," she assured him seriously. "I always knew you had your reasons. I've never not trusted you." 

"Then right now," he replied just as seriously, "I need you to trust me one last time. _You_ were _not_ the one who killed me." 

She let out a breath that was almost another sob as the conversation shifted so abruptly from what Kenshin felt she might blame him for to just the opposite. 

She could still feel the weight of the gun; she'd felt it every night in her dreams for months, and doubted it would ever really leave her hand. She could still remember with sickening precision the sight of him jerking and falling, and the ocean of self-loathing that had swept over her at that moment, soaked deep into her until she was saturated. 

"There is no part of me that even begins to blame you for what you were forced to do. You protected Kenji; how could I possibly blame you for that? Don't you think that, if I had known what was going on, I would still have gone down that alley and let it happen to keep you both safe?" 

That was an angle from which she hadn't considered things. Kenshin hadn't had any choice in the matter, had been an unsuspecting and unprepared victim, but she'd never thought about what his choice might have been if he'd been offered one. Of course the fact that Kenshin would gladly lay down his life for his son did not change the fact that she'd _taken_ his life without warning or consultation... but if the positions had been reversed... there was no question that _she_ would unquestionably consent to die rather than see her son harmed. 

Perhaps he recognized that, while this point had not been unproductive, it couldn't really alter a state of mind, a depression of spirit, that was by now so deeply ingrained. He'd always excelled at detecting what she was thinking and feeling -- which had undoubtedly made his inability to do so (or at least to make sense of what he saw) while she was being threatened all the more confusing and painful for him -- and he must see now that the best he could do here was attempt to put her on the path to self-forgiveness and recovery. Unfortunately, Kaoru wasn't sure that was a path her feet could ever find. 

He probably recognized that doubt too, for he said in a tone of urgent sorrow and supplication, "Please, Kaoru. I _know_ what it feels like to take everything away from someone you love. I know what murder feels like." 

Finally she managed to speak, to break in before he could come to his point. "But you only said 'reckless driving!' That's not murder; that's just a stupid mistake!" 

"Just as much murder as killing someone to protect your son," said Kenshin quietly. "I was reckless; you were afraid. Both of us might have had a different choice, but in the end, for both of us, someone still died. So I _know how it feels_. I know how it feels to blame yourself, and wonder what you could have done differently -- and then blame yourself even more for _not_ doing it differently -- and to think about how the one person you might be able to talk this out with -- the one person who could comfort you, the person you miss more than anything in the world, so much it physically hurts -- that person is not there to talk it out with you because of something _you did_. I know how much it hurts, and how hopeless it is, and how tempted you are just to kill yourself and get rid of it all. 

"I know how all that is, and I am begging you: _let it go_." 

She didn't want to appear to be making light of such a serious subject, and she believed Kenshin would know that she really wasn't, but she couldn't help laughing a little, wretchedly, at the simplicity of his advice. "You said _you_ couldn't do that until--" 

"Until I met someone stronger than I was," he interrupted intensely. "And if there is anyone in the world I believe can recover from something like this all on her own, it's you." 

Again she gave a miserable little laugh, both painfully touched at his opinion of her and continually daunted by the seeming impossibility of what he wanted her to do. 

Hearing this, his smile took on an even more regretful look as he added pragmatically, "Though I think some therapy might help too." 

Now she laughed more straightforwardly, though there was still a bitter edge to it at the idea of attempting to get any therapist anywhere to believe what she'd been through. 

"I hope you will do whatever you have to to be happy again," he went on. "All you ever did during our time together was make me happy; I can't stand to leave knowing that you can't be happy yourself." 

Throughout this whole conversation, something huge and heavy had been building inside Kaoru, contributing to her constriction of throat and becoming steadily more painful. Now, at the word 'leave' she realized what it was: the awareness, increasingly sharp and unignorable, that he really had to leave, that these really were their last few moments together until... she didn't know when or how or even _if_ they would meet again. She supposed he didn't either. 

"I... I'll try..." she choked out, and the panic that was growing along with the awareness sounded in her voice. "But, Kenshin, I--" She couldn't stop his going; she couldn't take back what had been done even if she did manage to stop blaming herself for it. So what was there to say? That she couldn't continue without him? Perhaps she did feel like that at the moment, to some extent, but she simply couldn't throw his statement of faith in her strength back in his face. So in the end there was nothing to say but, "I love you so much." 

"And I love you," was his passionately quick reply, "more than I can even tell you. I have no words for how much I love you and how much you changed my life. But if I know you will try to be happy, I can go to wherever I'm supposed to go now and..." Gently releasing her hands, he spread his and smiled. "And rest in peace." 

As he stood, Sano's height a brief but quickly-forgotten reminder that the body, at least, was not actually Kenshin's, Kaoru felt the panic take hold of her so firmly that she couldn't say a word as she too jumped unsteadily to her feet. 

"I feel it pulling me again," Kenshin said, looking briefly up and over his shoulder. "I wish I could say goodbye to Kenji, but there's no time." 

Desperately she managed to say his name, but no more. 

He shook his head. "I am sorry. I would never leave you or Kenji if had the choice, but Enishi did not give me that choice. Please tell Kenji how much his daddy loves him, always. I know he will be a good person, with you raising him." 

She flew at him, gripping, crushing, clutching as if somehow she could manually hold him in the world, keep him with her. And it didn't matter that the height was off and incorrectly-shaped arms pulled her against an unfamiliar chest; she was embracing her husband, the man she'd fallen in love with and never stopped loving, the father of her child, the source of both the greatest happiness and the greatest pain she'd ever known, for the last time. 

Gently he pushed her from him after only a moment -- not long enough, not _nearly_ long enough, but his strength was irresistible. "Thank you for everything you have done for me," he said, so quietly it was almost a whisper, even as he backed slowly away from her. "And goodbye." 

Teeth gritted, breaths hissing through them in sobbing gasps, she tried to detect some sign of his actual departure, but there was none. Kenshin was gone. There was only Sano, whose face smoothed from Kenshin's expression into blankness and whose frame shuddered and went limp as, his eyes drifting closed, he pitched forward toward the floor.


	54. Seeing Red Part 37

  


"--probably find it interesting, at least, that he's fainted twice in twenty-four hours." 

This latter half of a statement, from Hajime, was the first thing Sano heard upon awakening. But if Hajime thought the interest of having fainted twice in twenty-four hours was the first thing Sano would _feel_, he was dead wrong. Well, it _was_ interesting -- earlier this week he'd been reflecting on how he'd never actually seen someone faint, and now he'd done it twice himself -- but not nearly as engrossing as the sensation of what couldn't be anything but Hajime's arms around him, Hajime's body against his. 

Just as he'd suspected, it was a hard, wiry body that could probably do with eating more pizza on a regular basis, and the arms had an unrelenting grip. Given that they were both more or less upright, Sano guessed that Hajime had caught him as he'd fallen, and he was impressed at their positioning: Hajime must have dragged Sano's left arm across his own shoulders, leaned slightly, and pulled Sano against him with an arm around his ribcage -- thus avoiding as best he could the wounded right shoulder while still taking most of Sano's weight on himself. 

Not that the shoulder wasn't rather excruciating at the moment. It felt a little as if someone far more concerned with the extremely emotional conversation he was having than the state of the body he was borrowing had used that right arm and shoulder indiscriminately for a while. No real resentment could possibly arise from this, though; it was how things had to be. Honestly, Sano just wished he'd had a chance to say goodbye to Kenshin. 

It was strange to think of Kenshin as gone after so long having him around but inaccessible. Sano had barely gotten any opportunity to talk to the guy between the nuisance stage and the farewell, and that recognition of Kenshin as an individual that he'd hoped to accomplish at some point had never really come to pass. During their brief exchange, he had felt as if this was someone he really _would_ like to get to know, but it was too late now, and he couldn't help regretting it. 

Not exactly gently, but certainly with no deliberate roughness, Hajime was now setting him in the chair beside the sofa. Sano tried not to be quite so dead a weight as Hajime attempted to arrange him, but motor function was not available to him at the moment. It seemed the control of his body he'd relinquished to Kenshin was not something that would return on its own: he had to find it and actively take it up again. And the strangest thing about this state was that it didn't particularly worry or even frustrate him; it was only a matter of reconnecting, which might be a little while but would definitely happen. 

The feeling of breath on his face simultaneously galvanized him toward greater ability and froze him where he sat; but then Hajime drew away, out of contact with Sano entirely, leaving behind a racing heart that must be instrumental in a return to activity. Still, when control did begin to trickle back, it did so subtly enough that he barely noticed; it was as if he'd never been without it, and the open-eyed state he'd been wanting was achieved before he even knew he had the power to attain it. 

Hajime stood nearby, watching Sano calmly. His expression was _so_ calm, in fact, that for a moment Sano was a little annoyed. He'd fainted! Surely that merited _some_ concern, especially given that he was still wounded. But then it occurred to him that his thoughts had become relatively coherent full minutes before he'd been able to move -- which meant Hajime would have had evidence that Sano was all right long before Sano had been able to open his eyes and note the exorcist's face. So maybe Hajime _had_ worried at least a little. He'd apparently made a point of catching Sano before he could hit the floor, after all. 

At this, Hajime rolled his eyes and turned away. There was just the tiniest hint of a smile on his lips, though. 

Kaoru had returned to her seat on the sofa, whence she was staring at nothing with streaming eyes. She didn't seem aware of her surroundings, and, though Sano guessed she must have spoken to Hajime at least once to have prompted his comment about Sano fainting twice, he doubted she really remembered there was anyone else in the room. 

Her conversation with her husband was more like a dream than a proper memory to Sano, since being possessed had turned out to be a little like dreaming. Hell, compared to this process of recovering _from_ being possessed, it had been downright lazy. He'd felt as if he was floating in a comfortable haze, not required to do or say or think anything, barely even aware of what his body was up to; and all the events around him he'd observed with the detachment of a spectator only slightly invested in the proceedings. 

So now, in order to decide what he thought about that farewell discussion, he had to concentrate on it, run through it line by line and force it to solidify in his memory. And still it was a memory of someone else entirely; the fact that most of the words had been spoken with his mouth and many of the gestures given with his body didn't really register. 

He emerged from his musings at last with two very distinct impressions: first, that he was extremely glad Kaoru had made at least a little progress toward a better frame of mind; and, second, that he regretted more than ever not getting to know Kenshin. It seemed somewhat ironic and almost cruel that they'd been thrown together the way they had, inconveniencing Sano for so long during a very difficult time for Kenshin, but never been allowed to become friends and help each other through those difficulties as friends would. 

Well, it wasn't as if they'd been _no_ help to each other. Sano had done his part getting rid of the shade that had been plaguing Kenshin, and Kenshin... well, if he'd never begun haunting Sano, the latter would never have felt the need to call up an exorcist, would he? 

A third very distinct impression, actually, accompanied Sano out of the reverie about Kenshin's departure: his shoulder hurt a fucking lot. So his first real movement was to reach into his pocket in search of a couple of pills he'd stashed there before leaving Hajime's house. He was probably taking more of this stuff than he really should, but he could cut back on it later when he was free to lie around and not be possessed or stabbed by anyone. 

He wasn't sure how long he'd been sitting here regaining control of his body and pondering the friend he'd almost had, while Kaoru mirrored him on the couch trying to regain control of her emotions and pondering the husband she'd lost, but Hajime was stoically waiting for one or the other of them to say or do something. 

_I don't think she's going to be up to much more from us_, Sano sent, and was surprised at how weary even his mental communication sounded. Evidently _he_ wasn't going to be up to much more either. Possession really took a lot out of you, probably even if you weren't injured to begin with. 

Hajime nodded slightly. _Give her another minute_, he replied. _I have a few more things to tell her._ Somewhat irritably he added, _I would have said them earlier, but Kenshin just **had** to talk to her **that second**._

It didn't appear, however, that an appropriate moment for reopening conversation with Kaoru was likely to arise any time soon; she was so deep in thought that her awareness of their presence actually seemed to be _de_creasing as minutes passed. Sano found it all too easy to lose track of the others around him in his own reverie about Kenshin and everything that had happened, so he could only imagine how profoundly embroiled in contemplation Kaoru must be. 

Though Hajime was outwardly still and silent, waiting with apparently limitless patience for the right moment to resume the discussion, Sano was aware that he was increasingly impatient within. It came as no real surprise that Hajime was the type of person much more interested in the active pursuit stage (even if that active pursuit sometimes involved sitting around waiting for a phone call) than the emotional aftermath of a job like this. Of course he would not have given Kaoru any hint of this even had she been in a state to recognize hints, but he wanted to wrap this up. 

Eventually, clearly with his desire to be gone and his unwillingness to harass the client both in mind, in a tone just a touch louder than he might normally have used to get the attention of someone in the same room, Hajime said, "Mrs. Himura." 

Though a portion of his attention had been on Hajime all along, still Sano started a little at the sound, which motion of course jarred his shoulder. But Kaoru turned only slowly toward the speaker and seemed to be emerging gradually and with some difficulty (and, in the end, no more than partially) from her contemplation. She looked at Hajime as if there was a whole world of things she might want to say, but eventually said nothing at all. 

"We'll leave you to your thoughts," Hajime said, and again Sano believed he was aiming for a gentle tone he just didn't quite have the capacity for. "But there are a few more things you need to hear before we go." 

She nodded almost absently; her current level of attention was probably the best they were going to get from her right now. 

"The criminal organization your husband's brother-in-law was the head of was U.S.Seido, a company you've probably heard of, and we got most of our information from a man named Gains, who was Enishi's secretary. I would have preferred not to mention you specifically, but I wanted to know what your status with them is right now. Gains assured me that whatever revenge Enishi was working on against your family was being conducted with his personal resources, not the company's, and that he was using independent agents not directly employed by U.S.Seido. You'll have to decide how safe you feel knowing there are probably still a few people who were working for Enishi who know what really happened last year, but as far as the organization is concerned, you and your son are not targets and not being watched." 

Kaoru nodded slowly, her expression blank. Sano guessed this was more than she could process right now, and its meaning and implications would not sink in until later. Probably much later. 

At that moment there issued from the hallway that led from this room the command, "Stop making mommy cry!" 

All eyes turned that direction, toward where a little red-headed boy stood hugging the wall looking simultaneously rebellious and somewhat nervous. And as Sano gazed at the son Kenshin hadn't had a chance to say goodbye to and saw this courageous concern for the mother's feelings even at so young an age, he couldn't help thinking that Kenshin had been right: Kenji was sure to be a good person. At the very least, he might be able to break the pattern of murder and guilt his parents had established. 

Kaoru had held out her arms to her defensive child, who had gone willingly to sit on her lap and be held tightly by her but continued to stare defiance at the two men he perceived as the current cause of his mother's sorrow. It was about time to leave. 

"I... I don't know what to say," Kaoru murmured, half into her son's hair, as Sano stood slowly from the chair and leaned on it for balance. 

"Don't try," Hajime advised. This seemed somewhat rude, but it was also probably the best option for her at the moment. 

Still, Sano felt the need to wish her a friendlier goodbye. "You have my number if you need to talk or anything," he said, perhaps a little awkwardly. Meeting the angry gaze of Kenji still on his mother's lap, Sano was prompted, against pretty much every feeling on every side of this situation, to smile. "Good luck," he added before turning and following Hajime out of the apartment.


	55. Seeing Red Part 38

  


"So what do you think?" Sano had sunk into the passenger seat of Hajime's car with a sigh and leaned limply against the headrest before asking this question. 

Knowing that the latter was intended as, _"What do you think about Kaoru's prospects for health and happiness?"_ Hajime made a brief shake of the head precursor to looking behind him in order to back out of the parking space. "It's not promising." 

"You think so?" Evidently Sano was surprised at Hajime's pessimism, but didn't have the energy to express it at greater length. 

"There probably isn't a single part of her life that hasn't been affected by this experience. Her entire life has essentially been broken." 

"You don't think she can fix it?" 

"At best she'll end up living for her son. It won't be her own life anymore." 

"I think... you're wrong. I mean, it makes sense. But I think she'll be OK." And there it was again: that unaccountable surety Hajime had heard from Sano on a few previous occasions, as if Sano was privy to more information than Hajime, as if Sano was able to know rather than guess. As if Sano was divining without being aware of it. And when he added, "Anyway I _hope_ she will," the statement, rather than seeming, as it might have, a retreat from that certainty, seemed only a general expression of good will not at all incompatible with the absoluteness of the previous. Hajime could give no reply but a slight nod. 

Tired and pained though he was, Sano's mind was full and active. Perhaps a little _too_ active, in fact; he was obviously thinking and feeling a number of things at once, which Hajime thought was sure to wear him out even faster. He needed to lie down for a while, sleep if possible; removal from Hajime's presence might be beneficial as well. Since Hajime wasn't going to dump him at home without his Percocet, however, he was currently heading back to his own house to retrieve it. 

At the moment Sano was thinking about Kenshin, and feeling guilty for being so pleased that Kenshin was no longer haunting him. Now he could freely do all sorts of things he'd been less than entirely thrilled about performing for an audience (even if Kenshin had rarely been conscious of what Sano was up to), and get back to a daily life that didn't involve perpetual rage. But of course he still found the circumstances of Kenshin's death last year horrendous, pitied Kaoru profoundly, was glad he'd been able to help in any way, and wasn't sure to what extent he should allow himself to rejoice that the ghost was gone. 

Between Hajime and Kenshin there had been immediate disliking, but Sano's experience with the dead man had been just the opposite. And that fact, along with the knowledge that Kenshin had been haunting him specifically because he'd recognized the potential for serious friendship between them, led Sano to feel a forlorn regret that was unexpectedly intense. 

Sano hated the thought that he'd entirely missed the opportunity to make any kind of meaningful connection with Kenshin, that there was nothing he could do about it now and might never have been... and he anticipated an even stronger and deeper regret if, so close on the heels of that disappointment, he likewise missed the opportunity to make any kind of meaningful connection with Hajime. Opportunities seemed to be slipping from his grasp right and left. 

Though Sano hadn't said any of this aloud, it was entirely possible he'd wanted Hajime to hear it all. Either that or he'd been having a long moment of ineptitude attempting to keep his thoughts to himself. There were still times when it almost seemed as if Sano was incapable of that, though that assumption would not have been strictly accurate. 

Sano _had_ been improving on guarding his thoughts -- and at a rate Hajime would have considered impossible for someone not actively training as a communicator -- but somehow Hajime had also been adapting to Sano's shields even as Sano had been learning to erect them. They'd been growing together, specifically alongside each other. Which meant that Hajime still picked up on as much of the surface level of Sano's brain as he ever had. Perhaps more. 

But this latest thought was nothing Hajime could respond to at the moment. Because he still wasn't sure yet what he was going to do about Sano. If they became friends, would Sano's continual attempts to become something more irritate Hajime too much? Would Hajime's continual evasion of those attempts hurt Sano too much? Would it be a good idea to proceed in spite of that danger? Should Hajime plainly state that his interests lay in friendship alone, or just hope that Sano's romantic attachment would fade in time if nothing was said? Or perhaps not risk continuing the acquaintance at all? But he _wanted_... 

This social nonsense was the type of thing he just didn't have time for. Was it any wonder he lived with only non-human roommates five thousand miles from everyone he'd grown up with? 

What really bothered him was that he wasn't usually this indecisive. Was the question of whether or not to be Sano's friend really so important, so potentially life-altering, that he could still be dwelling on it after so long, could still have made so little significant progress in reaching a solution to the problem? 

Whether or not he'd meant to project his latest set of thoughts, Sano had obviously been using his wordlessness as a period of rest for a more involved verbal conversation, and now as they pulled into Hajime's driveway he sat up straighter and opened his eyes. But Hajime wasn't entirely certain he wanted to have the conversation Sano was undoubtedly planning. 

"Are we, um..." Pausing, Sano cleared his throat. From his look toward the house and back, it would have been easy to assume he was merely wondering what their plans for right now might be, and that he'd left most of the mundane question unspoken out of simple weariness. 

Hajime could not assume. But he pretended to. "You wait here," he said, just as if he weren't interrupting at a possibly crucial moment and had no idea Sano had been about to (at least attempt to) say something significant. "I'll be right back." 

Inside, he first threatened Misao with a return of the spray-bottle if she didn't stay off the kitchen counters, then ignored her subsequent noisy questions about where Sano was and when he would be coming back. She'd really taken a liking to Sano, apparently. It was a shame she wasn't the only one. 

The young man looked as if he was ready for fresh start at his intended question when Hajime returned to the car, and if Hajime had managed to make up his unusually untidy mind he might have allowed it. As it was, he handed over the green bottle he'd retrieved from his nightstand and asked immediately, "Did you leave anything else in my house?" And he really hadn't intended to sound cold or deliberately uninviting with this totally legitimate question, but apparently his intentions didn't matter much. 

"No, I don't think so." This somewhat defeated-sounding pronouncement from Sano was the last thing either of them said for a while. 

The earlier reflections must indeed have been meant for Hajime to hear, for the walls were up full force now and very little was getting through. As they headed back to the Asian district and drew closer and closer to Sano's apartment, the only mental voice Hajime was hearing was the one in his own brain urging him to invite Sano out to lunch between classes on Monday. Or something. Anything. 

But what if Sano thought he meant it as a date? 

Would even that really be so bad? 

The parking space beside Sano's car was available as it had been the other day, and Hajime pulled into it in continued silence. He hesitated, considering turning off the car, but thought better of the message that might send. 

"I'll probably sleep all afternoon," was Sano's muttered introduction to his real goodbye. 

"Probably a good idea," Hajime replied. 

"So I guess..." When Hajime turned a little reluctantly to face him, Sano went on very seriously. "Thanks for everything." He smiled weakly as he said, "Even stabbing me. I mean, this has all really been a huge big deal. I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't helped." 

"Neither do I," Hajime smirked. 

Sano gave a faint laugh at the insulting implication, but didn't specifically respond to it. Instead he said, "I feel less bad about not paying you since Gains gave us both money, but you didn't know that was going to happen... so... thanks for the free help." 

"It would have been worth it even without the money, since I had the chance to talk to a ghost." 

This statement, while perfectly true, seemed to serve as serious discouragement to Sano. Hajime was fairly sure this had all been leading up to another attempt at some suggestion regarding the future of their acquaintance, but now Sano's usual straightforwardness appeared to have momentarily abandoned him. Funny how that quality _and_ Hajime's decisiveness both seemed in abeyance when it came to this one particular matter... 

"Try not to overdose on that Percocet," Hajime said after what could only be called an awkward silence. 

Sano forced a laugh. "Guess that depends on how much it hurts." And with this ambiguous remark he reached for the door. 

Once standing on the pavement, he bent slightly and looked back into the car just as he had the last time Hajime had dropped him off here. And just like last time, Sano didn't quite seem to know what to say. His brows lowered a trifle, as with determination, and he opened his mouth... and Hajime, almost without thinking, shot down his last attempt. 

"Thank you for an interesting professional experience." It felt like a defensive move, a sort of reflex against the idea of even discussing a potential romantic relationship. 

"Yeah," said Sano dully. "Sure." He stood straight again so that his face was hidden as he added, "See you around." And he closed the door without further ado and began walking away. 

As this movement was being conducted rather slowly, and as Hajime thought the awkwardness would not be improved by his sitting here watching Sano's long path toward the building, the exorcist put his car in reverse after only a few moments and vacated the parking space. He threw one last look at Sano's retreating figure before leaving the lot and probably leaving Sano to think, despite the optimistic wording of his goodbye, that they would never meet again. 

Whether or not that was true, Hajime simply didn't know yet.


	56. Plastic Part 7

Quatre had been right about giving people time to reply, but Heero realized now that he shouldn't have waited quite so long. He'd returned to the message board the next morning just a little too eager, too hopeful, after that interval, as if expecting a set of detailed, specific answers waiting for him in the replies -- either a general consensus that this must be a hoax, or... well, nothing else, really. What else could they possibly have said? 

A lot of nonsense about artifacts, that was what. 

Heero wasn't even really sure what an artifact _was_ in this context, but, according to just about everyone on this forum, no single person could have cast a spell this effective and long-lasting without at least one. 

_Can you get more details from him about the type of magic his friend used?_ one person asked. _And what kinds of artifacts he used?_

_I once turned half my skin into leather mixing three artifacts by accident,_ another supplied, _and those were just the usual household arties. I can see someome doing something like this if he had something bigger._

A third briefly wondered, _What divinations have you tried on him?_ proving immediately that they hadn't actually read the original post as Heero had specifically mentioned that he and his friend had no knowledge of magic themselves. 

Not that everyone took the reputed curse seriously. _Sounds like a trick to me,_ said one skeptic. _I mean, like people said above, there's no way to cast a spell like that especially for so long without a couple of people working on it AND probably a strong arti or two. You should check that thing again for wires and speakers._

Another didn't even take the _post_ seriously. _Oh great, another troll. You people who come around here making s*** up really ought to look up how magic actually works before you come posting this s***. Better yet, find something better to do. Like diaf._

This last made Heero rather angry, and served as a reminder of why he didn't hang out online, but his overall mood was one of frustration. He was convinced by now that most of the people on this forum believed in magic and had at least a general knowledge of how it supposedly worked. But what the hell were these artifacts they were all going on about? 

He found he was too irritated to look this up, or to answer any of their questions at the moment -- even if he decided he was going to in any case, which he might not. After all, though he hadn't gotten any terribly useful responses, what he _had_ gotten pointed rather decidedly to the original theory that Duo was full of shit. Or perhaps s***. Even if all these people weren't roleplaying or crazy and magic _did_ exist, they seemed to agree that what Duo had described was impossible -- which was exactly what Heero had believed all along. 

At the end of the hall he paused, once again looking at the strange little figure on the end table in the living room. The television had probably, in the last two days, aired the Syfy channel for longer than it had in the last two years. 

What if it _wasn't_ impossible? What if Duo really _was_ a -- he could barely entertain the thought without shaking his head -- human cursed to live forever as a Barbie doll? 

Heero didn't even feel like thinking about that. 

"Doesn't it get boring?" he wondered with an effort, moving forward into the room, determined to distract himself. He wished Quatre hadn't gone home and left him here alone with Duo. 

"Star Trek?" the doll replied in a shocked tone. "Never!" 

Heero sat down at the end of the couch nearest the little table, and examined the doll. Quatre the soft-hearted had evidently been more moved by Duo's complaints than Heero had, and had combed and braided his hair at some point. That was just like Quatre. Heero still couldn't quite figure out whether his friend was slipping and really believing Duo's nonsense, or just being nice, the way he usually did, to anyone and everyone. 

"I mean watching TV all day and night," Heero said at last. 

"_Oh_, yes." Duo nodded his stiff nod. "It's better than nothing, but, god, it gets old. It gets to the point sometimes where I even prefer having tea parties with Barbie and then having to pretend to make out with her." 

Repressing a laugh Heero said in the most serious tone he could command, "Should I go out and buy a Barbie for you, then?" 

"I'd like to see you do that," Duo replied. "In fact, we could make a date out of it: dinner, a movie, and Toys'R'Us." 

"A sci-fi movie, I assume." 

"Definitely. Is _Avatar_ still in theaters? I wanted to see that." 

"It may still be at the cheap-- wait. You're a doll. Why do you need a theater when my TV is like a big screen to you?" 

"So rent it for me. I like that kind of date better anyway." 

"I am not dating you," Heero said flatly, though he was honestly more amused than anything else. 

"That's OK," replied Duo in his 'shrug' tone. "You can just take me straight to bed." 

One of Heero's brows went down and the other up. The result was a sort of skeptical scowl. "Maybe if you're a really good boy. Doll." 

Duo laughed.


	57. Plastic Part 8

  


Quatre was lucky he had his own office; otherwise he would have been continually looking over his shoulder in some embarrassment when the very first thing he did on Monday was to email Heero about the doll. He couldn't imagine how Heero -- whose 'private cubicle' on the sales floor lived up to its name only by having walls six inches higher than the other cubicles on the sales floor -- was going to get through the morning. 

Instead of answering Quatre's question about whether he'd learned anything useful from the people on the message board, Heero responded simply with a link to the thread. The promptness of his reply made Quatre laugh; that Heero had the URL ready without having to go looking for the place meant he'd come to work fully intending to check on the answers to his question during his shift. 

A situation such as this, Quatre thought, was a perfectly viable excuse for browsing an online forum to the exclusion of all other work before he really got going on a slow Monday morning. Besides, it wasn't as if he was paid by the hour... or his father didn't own the company or anything. And this artifact stuff seemed so interesting. 

He was having a rather difficult time grasping exactly what artifacts _were_ in this context, and hadn't bothered to look it up, but the general idea he got made it clear that they were essential to the spells these people supposedly cast on a daily basis -- and probably the cause of Duo's problem, assuming Duo wasn't lying. Unfortunately, though so far there was a good deal of back-and-forth in the lengthening forum thread as to whether or not the cursed doll predicament was possible, there were no concrete suggestions as to how to deal with it if it was. 

Between his legitimate items of business, Quatre spent the day emailing Heero. The latter seemed reluctant to request the further information the magic people wanted from Duo, and therefore needed to be prodded -- and beyond that, the topic was so interesting that they just couldn't stop discussing it even when there was really very little to be said. They were both keeping a constant eye on the forum, too, and had to confer on every new post added to the thread; but by the end of the day they hadn't made any significant progress. 

That Heero was exceptionally emotionally invested in this was the only aspect of the situation that seemed certain to Quatre. Whether or not magic existed, whether or not the people on the message board really practiced it, whether or not Duo was what he said he was, Heero was taking more than just entertainment from all of this. Why this might be, Quatre wasn't sure (though he planned on finding out), but it was undoubtedly the reason for the restless irritation Heero evinced as he sat in Quatre's office after his own shift was over, waiting for his friend. 

"Let's go get dinner," Quatre said at last, stretching so that his chair creaked. 

Heero nodded and rose wordlessly. 

"And then go interrogate that doll," added Quatre pointedly. 

Heero frowned, but didn't protest. Neither did he object to the suggestion that he drive, nor even ask why, which was the last proof Quatre needed of his level of distraction. Quatre _always_ drove when they took one car somewhere, simply because he made more money than Heero did (well, and also because Heero's car was something of an ancient wreck). 

"All right," Quatre demanded as soon as they were underway, "time to come clean. I know this is all very interesting, but I think _you're_ getting more into it than really makes sense." 

As Heero was driving, he couldn't turn and give Quatre a look of some kind -- at least not for longer than a few seconds -- and therefore had to answer verbally, which was part of the reason Quatre had suggested this arrangement. But, "I am not," was all he said. 

"Yes, you are," Quatre insisted. "You're totally wrapped up in this, more than I think I've ever seen you in anything. Did you get _any_ work done today?" 

"Of course I did." Heero sounded just the tiniest bit guilty, though. 

"Of course you did," Quatre echoed in a soothing tone. "Whenever you weren't busy obsessing over that magical message board." 

"I'm not 'obsessing,'" Heero protested. "You said it yourself: he's just really interesting. I want to find out what's true and what isn't." 

"So you're starting to believe in magic!" Quatre concluded, amused. 

"No. We don't have enough information yet to make a positive statement." 

Quatre laughed. "The fact that you admit there even _is_ information that might allow us to believe at some point shows just how into this you are." 

"I'm surprised _you're_ not," Heero replied, changing tactics with unusual warmth (which, Quatre thought, just helped to prove his point). "A talking doll who might actually be human? Magic might actually exist?" 

With a shrug Quatre said, "I've already admitted it's interesting. I just think you're a lot more interested than I am." 

Heero snorted. "All the different interesting aspects of this situation, and none of them are enough to get you _really_ interested." 

"I think my attitude is more logical than yours," insisted Quatre. He would have continued, but just at that moment the precise wording of Heero's earlier statement belatedly struck him: _"**He**'s just really interesting."_ But that couldn't possibly... 

Heero had pulled them into the parking lot of the restaurant they typically preferred after work, and Quatre was still contemplating the odd idea that had occurred to him as they got out of the car. He had only a few more moments to think about it, however. 

They didn't pay any attention whatsoever to the man by the door, just as they would have ignored any other restaurant patron they didn't know. Quatre, in fact, didn't so much as glance at him as they moved past -- that is, until the man reached out a hand and touched Quatre's arm lightly. "Excuse me," he said softly. "Are you two the ones with the talking doll?"


	58. Plastic Part 9

Heero whirled on the stranger, excessively perturbed at having the matter mentioned so abruptly by an outsider -- not least because it sounded so absurd. He paused at the sight of the man, however, taken aback by an appearance so odd and an expression so earnest he couldn't help giving him his attention. 

An outdated suit wasn't the only thing strange about the man; there was also an unnatural, unhealthy-looking paleness, almost a _greyness_, to his skin, and an unusual brightness to his eyes that reminded Heero of descriptions he'd heard of certain types of drug addicts. He seemed discomposed, restless, worried, tense -- and at the same time trying very hard to conceal or subdue it. 

Quatre had let his arm fall from where he'd been reaching for the door, and now was examining the stranger alongside Heero. Not quite as willing to be rude to people as Heero was, however, he answered the question. "Yes, that's us." 

The stranger drew in a deep, quiet breath, apparently tensing even further. "Please," he said, "may I talk to you?" He repeated, "Please," with an almost desperate intensity that seemed to coincide exactly with his extreme but repressed agitation. 

Heero glanced at Quatre, who raised his eyebrows in an expression as much _Why not?_ as _What the hell is this?_

"Sure," Heero agreed. "Let's go inside and get a table and talk there." 

The stranger nodded and accompanied them through the door. Heero noticed that his coat had tails. 

Once seated and once soda orders had been placed by Heero and Quatre, the latter two settled into staring at the stranger across the table, waiting for whatever he had to say. 

"I won't waste your time," the man began. "Has this doll you found told you his name?" 

"Yes," Heero nodded. "Duo Maxwell." 

At these words the man seemed to crumple as if invisible strings holding him taut had been abruptly cut. He leaned forward with a trembling sigh, evidently too weak all of a sudden to remain upright, put his elbows on the table, and buried his face in his hands. "My god..." he whispered, then repeated the phrase two or three times at lower and lower volumes. 

For a moment Heero and Quatre could only watch in fascinated pity, but presently Quatre put out a hesitant hand and touched one of the stranger's. "Are you his friend?" he guessed. "The one who cast the spell?" 

The gentleness of Quatre's tone must have been a good choice, for the stranger raised his face with a deep breath. There were tears on his cheeks. "Yes," he replied weakly. "I've been looking for him for eighty-seven years." 

Heero tried to soften his stare, but feared he was failing. "You'll have to forgive me for being a little skeptical of everything you say. You've got to be aware of how crazy this all sounds." 

The man nodded, wiping the moisture from his face. "And you will have to forgive me for not caring whether or not you believe what I say." 

"That sounds fair," Quatre put in quickly. "You look like you could use a drink; what can we order for you?" 

"I..." The man shook his head as if to clear it and get back on track. "I would not mind a glass of wine. Thank you." 

Their waiter had by this time returned, ready to take their dinner order, so the drink was requested along with the meal. Heero assumed either that Quatre was paying for this or that whatever the stranger had to say would be worth buying him alcohol on a split check. 

Another staring silence fell while the man finished getting himself as under control as the situation permitted and the other two simply waited. Heero wasn't even quite sure what he was waiting _for_, but he waited nonetheless. He didn't doubt the man had more to say than simply seeking confirmation of Duo's identity and whereabouts, but whether this would confirm the whole thing as a hoax or continue skirting Heero's full disbelief he was eager to see. 

The wine, which the waiter brought out immediately, seemed to help. It didn't exactly put color into the pale cheeks of the stranger, but a few sips granted him a certain increase in steadiness. When he next spoke, however, it still wasn't to offer explanation or introduction, but, rather, continue questioning the other two. "Is Duo all right?" 

"Other than being a doll?" Heero couldn't refrain from a touch of sarcasm. "He's fine." 

"He isn't... damaged... in any way?" the man wondered. "It's been so long... he's still in one piece?" 

"I couldn't pull his leg off when I tried," Heero shrugged. The man winced. 

"He's not happy about being a doll, if that's what you want to know," Quatre put in quietly. 

The stranger's brows contracted beneath his face-shadowing hair, his unusually bright eyes cast down. "That's only natural," he murmured, in a tone of such helpless misery and guilt that Heero heard Quatre beside him catch his breath. Even Heero, whatever he might or might not believe about this situation, found himself moved to pity. There was no way to reassure the man, however; Duo had barely mentioned him or the exact circumstances of the curse, and Heero hadn't wanted to press the doll on what, if it was true, must be a painful subject. 

Quatre obviously _wished_ to reassure, however, and therefore gave what little information they had that might: "He didn't sound angry when he mentioned you. Even if he was upset with you back then, I'm sure he isn't anymore." 

This did little to clear the unhappiness from the man's face. He took another sip of wine and a deep breath, then said slowly, "I never meant for it to happen at all, and god knows I've been paying for it since." 

"How _did_ it happen?" Heero wondered. This was one of the things he'd been supposed to ask Duo -- the specifics of the scene that had purportedly caused all the trouble back in whatever year forever ago -- which, once again, he hadn't wanted to bring up for fear of bothering the doll. 

"I've never told anyone before." The stranger looked at him a little unsteadily. "You won't believe it." 

"I'd like to hear about it too," Quatre said. 

The man transferred his gaze to Quatre, where it remained for several long seconds. Finally, nodding, he swallowed the last of his wine and began to tell his story.


	59. Plastic Part 10

"Duo and I grew up together," the man began. "I don't remember a time when we weren't best friends, until... well, we had been friends since we were children. I had run away from my family, and he was an orphan..." 

Quatre found himself unusually riveted on the stranger's words. Whether this tale was true or whether this was simply a phenomenal actor adding onto the hoax, there was just something so _interesting_ about the man. Heero had marveled that no aspect of this situation was interesting enough to get Quatre _really_ interested; now one seemed to have appeared. 

"We did whatever we could to scrape up money... lived together in one room, shared everything we earned..." In a nearly inaudible tone of nostalgia almost unbearably sad the man added, "We shared everything." 

He shook his head and went on. "We'd always known that magic was real; one of our neighbors when we were young was a fortune teller, and it was something we'd simply always accepted. But it wasn't until years later that it occurred to us to try practicing ourselves. The old woman had died by then, but we managed..." Again he shook his head, this time apparently in self-reproof. "But you don't need to hear all about how we learned magic." 

Quatre thought that he would very much like to hear how they had supposedly learned magic, but agreed that it was tangential to the overall story. 

"By then I had a job at a factory where I made better money than either of us ever had. Duo refused to come work with me; he couldn't stand that kind of repetitive work." The man's tone held a retroactive fondness for his friend, and once again a nostalgia so strong and pathetic it almost seemed too personal for others to be privy to. Quatre suddenly began to wonder what the _precise_ relationship between the two had been. 

"We had enough money, for once; the Great War had ended; and magic kept us entertained. Everything in our lives seemed to be going well." 

Here the man was interrupted by the appearance of food. As their meals were set down in front of them, the waiter promised refills on sodas, and in conjunction with this asked whether the stranger would like another glass of wine. Observing hesitance in the stranger's look, Quatre volunteered, "I believe he would," with a friendly smile at both parties. The waiter took himself off, the stranger thanked Quatre, and the story continued. 

"Late in 1922 I was promoted to general overseer at the factory, and suddenly I was in possession of more money than I'd ever dreamed of having when I was a newsboy on the streets. I thought it was a good thing at first. I believe even Duo thought it was a good thing at first. But it changed things." He fell silent for a moment, pensive. The waiter reappeared just then with his wine; after giving him a nod of thanks and seeing him gone again, the stranger went on. 

"My new salary bought me a place in a higher level of society than I'd ever moved in. It was a different world back then; society wasn't what it is now. I was never much of a society person, but it was entertaining to be asked to parties and luncheons I could never have attended before. But once Duo saw what it was like, he wouldn't have any part of it. He wouldn't move into the new apartment I rented, wouldn't ride in the new car I bought, and, though he was often included in invitations extended to me, he wanted nothing to do with what he called my 'new shit-heel friends.' Until..." 

The man pursed his lips slightly, looking perturbed. "I've forgotten her name," he murmured. "She was what started all of this, and I've forgotten her name." 

"You argued over a _woman_?" Quatre asked. Why this should be so surprising he couldn't guess, but he was definitely startled. 

The stranger nodded. "He only started making himself pleasant to her after _I'd_ shown an interest; it was clear -- to me, at least -- that he wasn't actually interested in her... but he had a gift for making himself pleasant, which you may have noticed." 

Heero had been sitting, stiff and silent, at Quatre's side all this time, and, though he still said nothing, at this point he did nod almost imperceptibly. 

"I confronted him about it," the stranger went on with a sigh, "and accused him of toying with her solely to diminish my chances with her. I accused him of being petty and fake and... I believe my exact words were, 'It's as if you were made of plastic.'" 

With an swift indrawn breath of understanding, half excited and half horrified, Quatre interjected, "And that's why...!" 

The man nodded. "He accused me in return of not caring about him anymore -- not caring about _anything_ anymore, except money and what it could buy me. He believed it, too; he really thought I didn't care about him. My best friend, whom I'd grown up with, who was closer to me than anyone, who knew me better than anyone..." 

An expression of pain took hold of the pale face opposite Quatre, twisting the stranger's handsome features pathetically for several moments before smoothing gradually out again. "I'm not trying to justify what I did," the man insisted quietly, "only what I felt. It upset me so much that he could think that way, I wanted to force him to feel what I felt, to know exactly how much I cared. I thought I could put together a spell that would do that, that would let him share my emotions just for a few moments. But I'd forgotten..." 

"Artifacts?" Heero guessed, speaking for the first time since the story began. 

The man nodded. "You've been paying attention to that message board, I see. Yes, I'd forgotten that I had recently acquired a new artifact, though I didn't know its power yet in any case. Some of my shit-heel friends practiced magic as well, and... but, again, you don't need to know the story of how I came by the artifact. All you really need to know is that it was an extremely powerful one. 

"We were in my apartment at the time, and it was in the room. It twisted my spell into something I could never have wanted, and made it more powerful than anything I could ever have cast... and I was just amateur enough not to realize what was happening. If I'd only realized, I might have stopped it..." Bitterly, quietly he repeated, "I might have stopped it." By now he was on his third glass of wine, and Quatre got the feeling that this entire conversation was a much-needed release for him. After so many years, finally to be unburdening himself... well, assuming it all was true. 

"Duo was standing at the window, leaning on the sill," the stranger went on at last. "When he... when the spell changed him, he fell... he hit the windowsill and fell out... My apartment was on the third floor, and he fell all the way to the ground. I could hardly understand or believe what I'd seen... I thought I'd simply seen him shrink, but the sound he made hitting the windowsill..." He grimaced slightly as he relived the misery and confusion of that scene, and evidently, once again, decided not to go into excessive detail. "I saw him on the ground when I looked out the window, but by the time I got out of the building to the street, he was gone. Someone must have picked him up. After that I... never saw him again." 

"So you--" Horrified as he was at the implications of this, Quatre had to pause until the waiter had taken their plates, promised another glass of wine, and left them in peace. "So you only saw him for a second? You've been looking for him all these years without even being sure what he _looked_ like? Or even if he was still alive?" 

"I knew he hadn't died," the man replied. "I heard him shout as he fell, and he was moving on the sidewalk when I looked down at him. But, yes, I haven't been certain of much." 

Quatre shook his head. "It must have been terrible," he murmured. 

"I've spent my time following any and every possible rumor that might be Duo, and, when there weren't any, trying to master the artifact so that if I did find him I would be able to undo the curse." 

"And can you?" Heero asked, sounding suddenly a good deal more interested than before. 

"I don't know." The stranger fixed them each in turn with a very pointed look. "I would have to see him."


	60. Plastic Part 11

"I would have to see him." 

It wasn't exactly a request; it wasn't even a demand; it was a _com_mand. And, whether magic was involved or not, Heero thought it would take a brave man to look into those bizarre eyes and tell him no. At the same time, he couldn't exactly bring himself to tell him yes either. 

"Quatre," he said, rising abruptly, "can we talk?" 

Quatre slid out of the booth after him, but didn't follow until he'd pulled out his wallet and found a card with which to pay the bill. Leaving this on the table, he walked after Heero. 

The latter made his way out of the dining area and into the corridor leading to the bathrooms. "Are you sure you want to leave your debit card sitting on the table with that guy?" was what he said first. 

"What, you think he'll steal it?" Quatre laughed, sounding a little surprised at the question. 

Heero frowned. 

"If he didn't use magic to find us, he must already be an expert at getting information. One message board post, and he shows up two days later? He could probably steal either of our identities without needing my Visa." 

"That isn't exactly comforting," mumbled Heero. 

"Do you think he's dangerous?" 

"I just don't know that I want to invite him to my apartment. He wants to see Duo, but..." 

Quatre stared at him. "But you heard everything he said... he _has_ to see Duo." 

"I heard a good story," Heero agreed darkly, "with absolutely no proof, still. Throughout this whole thing, there hasn't been one single bit of _proof_." 

"But do you at least admit that, if his story _is_ true, he _does_ have to see Duo?" 

"Of course, but how could it possibly be true?" 

"Earlier you didn't seem to think it was so impossible." 

Heero gave a half-angry sigh. "I don't know what to think. Except that it would be stupid to let some stranger into my home on nothing more than some crazy sob-story about magic. A talking doll is one thing, but this..." 

Thoughtfully Quatre gave a brief glance around them. Evidently he was not, as Heero would have been, checking that nobody else was nearby and listening to their insane conversation; rather, he seemed to be deciding whether or not to say something he had in mind. Finally he did. "You know what? I believe him. I don't think he's crazy, and I don't think this is a hoax anymore." 

"I thought so." There was just the tiniest bit of sourness to Heero's tone. "You always _did_ go for the emo type." He probably shouldn't have said that -- at least not like that -- but the symptoms had been unmistakable all through the stranger's story, and now this declaration of belief after less than an hour... 

Quatre's eyes narrowed, but he smiled as he said sweetly, "At least I don't go for the _plastic_ type." 

"What do you mean?" Heero demanded as if he didn't know perfectly well. He felt his face growing warm. 

Quatre's smile was triumphant for just a moment before it opened out into a more real, sympathetic expression. "The bad news for both of us," he said a little forlornly, "is that those two are obviously long-lost..." He shrugged slightly. "Lovers, I guess, is the best word. 'Boyfriends' doesn't seem to fit." 

"You think so?" asked Heero, startled. 

Gesturing impatiently, Quatre didn't expand on the subject. "You have to let him see Duo," he insisted instead. 

Heero ran a frustrated hand through his hair. "I just don't want to be robbed and murdered," he said. "Is that so unnatural?" 

Quatre let out another surprised laugh, but sobered immediately. "I guess I see your point. I think we can trust the guy, but better safe than sorry." 

Heero nodded. "Maybe we can go get the doll and meet him somewhere." 

"Good idea." 

They stared at each other for a long moment, as if there was more to say and neither could or would be the first to say it, before, with almost simultaneous sighs, they turned to head back into the dining area. 

As Quatre signed the receipt -- the stranger hadn't stolen his debit card and bolted, it turned out -- Heero stared at the man. Still seated, the latter was finishing his glass of wine and gazing blankly at the table. When Quatre was done, Heero simply said, "Come on." 

Outside, as they approached Heero's car -- why had they come in _his_ car, anyway? -- he began to explain the intended plan: that they would go retrieve Duo and meet the stranger somewhere with him, preferably right here or in the vicinity. But, despite Heero's brevity, the man interrupted him before he was halfway finished. 

"You don't trust me. I understand. Would it help if I could prove that everything I've been telling you is true?" 

Heero turned to face him, meeting strange sober eyes with his own hard stare. After a moment he admitted, "Yes, it would." 

The man nodded. Turning to Quatre, who walked by his side, he said, "Please excuse the liberty." And to the extreme surprise of both Heero and Quatre, the stranger put an arm around Quatre's waist and pulled him a half-step closer to himself. Quatre was evidently too startled to break away as the man said something else under his breath; and the next moment, with a slight flash, they had both vanished.


	61. Plastic Part 12

  


Quatre had told Heero that he believed the stranger's story, and he'd thought he meant it. Even before, when they only had Duo's word on the matter, Quatre had, if not exactly _believed_, at least been _ready_ to believe. But the truth was that, until this very moment, he hadn't known what it _was_ to believe. 

Dizzy and extremely startled, he was clinging to the stranger with both hands as if he would fall when he released him. Thinking that he actually might, he didn't let go for several moments after it -- whatever it was -- had ended, despite his embarrassment at suddenly finding himself clutching a man he'd just admitted he was attracted to. 

They stood now in the grass in a park that Quatre recognized only after almost a full minute of astonished confusion as being across the street from the restaurant they'd just vacated. Deep shadow cast by a grove of trees, which hid that street from sight, surrounded them, and their advent had startled (besides Quatre) at least two rabbits into bolting. 

Evening had set in, and their current unexpected location was far from any of the street-lights that made the edges of the park glow; as Quatre looked up into the stranger's eyes, however, he thought they caught some inexplicable light source he could not see and reflected it in uncanny green. There seemed to be a strange glow about the man's face, too: a pale, sickly luminance coating his skin like moisture. Oddly, this did nothing to diminish the attractiveness of the face, only increased its pathos somehow. The man smelled not unpleasantly of old books. 

The stranger released him, gently disentangling himself from Quatre's grip, and stepped aside. "Excuse me," he said again. 

Quatre, still almost stunned at what had just happened, could not stop staring at him. It took him some time to find his voice, but when he did he asked, "Can you go _anywhere_ like that?" There was an almost childlike admiration in his tone, to which he wondered how the stranger would react. 

"There are limitations," the man replied simply. "I was ready to bring one of you here; I thought it would be easier to convince you if I took you with me instead of simply vanishing myself." 

"Why me?" wondered Quatre before he could stop himself. 

"You seemed less likely to attack me if I touched you," was the excessively logical answer. 

"Well, I'm convinced," Qutare assured him. 

"Good," the man nodded. "I have to see Duo." 

With the warmth of the man's arm still fading from Quatre's waist, Duo's name was a timely reminder and warning. "Of course," Quatre said. "I'm sure Heero's convinced too; let's go back." 

"Shall I take you back?" the stranger proposed. 

"Yes!" replied Quatre, perhaps with just a touch too much excitement. 

The man didn't seem to notice that Quatre might be flirting with him a little, however, and, stepping forward, again put an arm around him. Quatre tried to catch the words he murmured this time, but they were too unfamiliar and quick to make out. Then, with another flash and that same strange sensation as before, they had relocated from the cool of the park to the concrete of the restaurant parking lot. 

Heero was as startled to see them appear as he had undoubtedly been to see them disappear. He made an inarticulate noise of surprise, and seemed ready to take hold of Quatre and drag him away from the stranger. Restraining himself, however, he merely asked, "What was that?" 

"Magic," replied the man, releasing Quatre. 

Thoughtfully Heero nodded, his look of surprise fading quickly; he'd had their entire absence to get over the bulk of his shock. Quatre speculated that, beyond that, he was reflecting on the implications of what he'd seen: this essentially proved that Duo was a real person, after all. 

Finally Heero looked up from where he'd been pensively staring at nothing, and met the stranger's eyes. "Well, I believe you now," he stated, and actually smiled a little. "So let's go see Duo." 

The stranger seemed to relax a bit. "Thank you," he said quietly. 

"We need to go back to work so I can get my car," Quatre reminded his friend. 

"I'll take you to your car," the stranger said. 

"Really?" Quatre turned toward him eagerly. 

"If it will speed things up." 

"Why not just magic all three of us to my apartment?" wondered Heero, the dryness of his tone clearly a mild reproof directed at Quatre for being frivolous. 

Quatre would have had a good comeback, or at least made a face at him, if the stranger hadn't been present with more important matters to think of. "Because we'll both want our cars in the morning," he replied levelly. "So we'll meet you at home, OK?" 

As Quatre turned again and took a step toward the stranger, he saw Heero shake his head as he agreed. 

Once more the stranger put an arm around Quatre's waist. This time, he leaned close to Quatre and murmured into his ear, "I need you to concentrate on the place we're going to; picture it as clearly as you can." 

Somewhat reluctantly, Quatre closed his eyes, cutting off his view of the stranger's, and imagined the parking lot at work. He felt the man pull him just a little closer, and then, with the same bizarre sensation of momentary weightlessness as before, they were gone.


	62. Plastic Part 13

  


Heero reached for the lock on his front door, then let his hand fall. Staring down for a moment at the key he held, he found he couldn't bring himself to open the door just yet. After all, how did you prepare someone for the fact that a friend they'd thought long dead, a friend that had turned them into a doll, was actually alive and guilt-ridden and maybe a trifle weird after all these years, and would soon be here? Especially when you might have just a little bit of a crush on that someone, and the nature of their relationship with their friend wasn't entirely clear to you at the moment? 

How exactly _was_ that man alive, anyway? Heero hadn't asked because he'd still been assuming the whole thing was a hoax until having the wits startled out of him by the man's proof; now he wondered. Presumably the answer would have something to do with magic, but Heero was by now getting a fairly good idea of what magic could and couldn't typically do -- and he didn't think anything that would grant immortality was on the list of frequently miscast spells. Perhaps it had something to with that 'extremely powerful' artifact the man had mentioned. 

Putting his back to the door, he settled in to wait. He didn't have long, though; the work lot wasn't much farther from his apartment than the restaurant, and evidently the teleportation (or whatever it was called) was instantaneous. Quatre and the stranger were soon approaching him down the hall, and at the sight of them Heero finally turned and put the key into the lock. 

Again, "Thank you," said the stranger -- what was his name, anyway? -- as Heero opened the door and gestured the others to enter in front of him. The man seemed to radiate tension now, and the atmosphere immediately pervaded the apartment. This was lit only by the television, which of course was still on, until Quatre flipped the switch. Heero closed the door and watched with interest -- not uncolored by some assimilated agitation of his own -- to see what the stranger would do. 

Duo, fairly clearly visible on the end table, greeted them with, "_There_ you are! I thought you'd be home around six or something, not halfway into _Deep Space Nine_. How late do you guys--" He'd turned his head while speaking -- slowly, as if reluctant to look away from the TV -- and cut off abruptly as it swiveled far enough to take in the little group in the entryway. In a tone quite unlike the previous he choked out, "Tr... Trowa?" 

The stranger was stumbling forward now, circumnavigating the sofa only with difficulty. When he reached the end table, he snatched up Duo, whose little arms were waving wildly, paper towel skirt and all, and pulled him against his chest. After a moment, he sank to his knees on the carpet as if he were too weak to stand. 

At first the conversation, already muffled on the stranger's side by tears and on Duo's by the stranger's suit-jacket against which he was pressed, was almost completely inaudible, but once Quatre had turned the TV off Heero found he could make out some of the words. 

"Holy shit, Trowa, it's really you, isn't it?" was the first coherent sentence from Duo. 

"Duo, oh, my god, Duo," was the bulk of the comments put forward by the other man. Trowa, apparently. This formed a sort of undercurrent to Duo's next several statements: 

"Trowa, stop hugging me; it's pointless; I can't feel it. Let me see your face! How the hell are you still alive? It was 1923, for god's sake! How did you find me? How long have you been looking? Where have you been? Why aren't you dead? I'm so fucking glad you're not dead. I'm so glad to see you. Are you crying? Hell, I would too if I could." 

Heero and Quatre stood silently in the entryway, watching as Trowa finally gave Duo a little breathing room (as it were) and discontinued his repetitive murmur. The first coherent sentence from _him_ was, "Duo, your hair... it's real... it's just like it always was..." And he stroked Duo's hair so thoroughly, so _desperately_ almost, that it began to come out of its braid. 

"Yeah..." Duo replied. Unlike his friend, whose face was streaming with tears and who seemed to be shaking a little where he knelt on the floor, Duo's thoughts and emotions could only be guessed through his voice -- though this was a little shaky too. "I've never really understood it." 

"And your eyes..." Unable to finish this thought, Trowa bent so his brow rested on Duo's head. 

"It's all right," Duo whispered. "It's all right, Trowa." 

"I've been looking for you for so long," Trowa replied at the same volume. 

"It's over now." Duo seemed to have much better hold of himself in this situation than Trowa did. Apparently ninety years of being a child's plaything was better on the brain than ninety years of penitence, fruitless searching, and solitary magical study. 

Finally Trowa looked up again, examining Duo in despair. "I never meant for this to happen..." 

"If you had," Duo laughed weakly, "I'd totally have to kill you." 

Trowa was not amused. "I am _so sorry_," he said. "I can't even ask forgiveness for something so horrible." 

"I forgave you back in, like, the forties," was Duo's impatient, still somewhat shaky reply. "So stop crying." 

This seemed to lighten the mood just a touch, though Trowa did not smile. Instead he raised a free hand to wipe at his face, and said, "I'm sorry. I'm a little drunk. And I haven't seen you in eighty-seven years." 

"And, seriously, how are you still alive?" Duo wondered. "You _look_ half-dead." 

"The curse. The artifact. It's a long story." 

"I was keeping track all along, you know," said Duo softly. "I'd look at the date and think, 'Trowa's thirty-seven this year,' or whatever... until finally in the sixties I started to hate seeing calendars... because I'd see the year and think, 'He might be dead by now...'" His voice sank even lower. "In the eighties it turned into, 'He's _probably_ dead by now,' and then..." He shook his plastic head. "And then here you are, still alive, in twenty-fucking-ten." Bad language seemed to be part of his way of dealing with severe emotion; Heero hadn't heard him swear this much before. 

At this moment Quatre touched Heero's arm. Heero, who had been somewhat hypnotized by the scene and hanging on every word as if it were something fascinating on a stage, started and looked at his friend. Quatre gestured him to follow. Only casting a brief glance back at the man and the doll that didn't even seem aware of their presence or their departure, Heero did so. 

Quatre led him out onto the balcony at the end of the hall, and, when the door was closed behind them, explained, "I think they deserve some privacy, don't you?" Slowly Heero nodded, and Quatre leaned onto the railing and sighed. "We probably shouldn't even have been in there that long, but I felt like I couldn't move." 

Again Heero nodded, and came to join Quatre at the railing. "So what do you think about them?" he asked a little darkly. 

Quatre smiled wanly. "We never had a chance."


	63. Plastic Part 14

  


Trowa couldn't remember ever feeling so weakened and overcome in his considerably long life. He'd grown so accustomed to false leads and disappointment, to having his crime thrown back into his face by fate again and again, that he'd reached a point where he simply no longer believed he would ever find Duo; somewhere in his subconscious, he saw now, he'd been under the impression -- not unjust, he thought -- that he would spend the rest of eternity on a vain search for the friend he'd damaged beyond repair. 

He hadn't even been aware that he'd felt this way. When he'd heard Duo's name again after so long, been informed that the doll the strangers had reported on that message board was, in fact, the one he sought -- he'd felt the emotional impact, he'd thought he believed, but even then it had not been real. No, until he'd actually seen Duo, held Duo, heard his voice and looked into his painted eyes... until then, he realized, he hadn't known what it _was_ to believe. And now he was almost in shock. 

Somehow he'd made it onto the sofa, where he sat at the very end next to the little table that seemed to be Duo's personal space, but he had no recollection of moving there, nor of setting Duo down. The world was at once shadowed by a haze of confusion and the lingering, cloying sorrow of the last eighty-seven years, and ablaze with a brilliance of unexpected, undeserved joy and sudden hope. 

Duo had been telling him about a few of the people he'd stayed with over the decades, more as a method of tracing his path around the country than to give any real indication of anyone's character or habits. It was no surprise that the first had been a child on vacation whose family had left town the very day of the accident. Trowa had scoured that city end to end by every means available to him -- magic, social connections, and just plain legwork -- and, finding no trace of his friend, had been forced to conclude that Duo had somehow left its boundaries. His despair at the realization that his search must now encompass the entire nation and perhaps beyond had for a while almost completely subdued him. 

"I am so sorry for you," Duo remarked with the uncanny headshake that made Trowa feel alternately guilty and very disturbed. "I was in someone's suitcase being hauled cross-country at that point. At least I had plenty of time to relax and think about what was going on... _you_ were just going nonstop." 

"I was still in the middle of everything I knew," Trowa replied, shaking his own head. "Still at home, still... human..." 

"Yeah, well... it _does_ suck to be a doll," admitted Duo, "but there are a _few_ good things about it. I don't have to worry about where my next meal is coming from, since I can't eat; or where I'm going to sleep every night, since I can't sleep, or freeze to death; I can't feel pain... There are worse things to live as than an immortal talking doll. Like probably an immortal magical human." 

Trowa shook his head. He didn't believe for an instant that it hadn't been far worse for Duo than for him. 

"So tell me about that artifact," Duo pressed, evidently tired of competing to ascribe more misery to Trowa than he'd felt himself. "I didn't even know you _had_ one that could do something like this; it must have been something you hadn't shown me yet." 

Trowa nodded. "Albert Payater -- if you remember him -- he had just given me a good price on it the day before, because it was unpredictable and almost impossible to control. Nobody knew much about it, so he didn't give me details; he did warn me that it could be dangerous to keep lying around, but I didn't take him as seriously as I should have. 

"When I researched it later I learned that it belonged to an old moon-worshiping cult in the 1700's. They used to feed their own magical energies into it when they were still active, so it's very powerful, and it does have some connection with the moon." He indicated the skin of his face. "That's the reason for this. It took me almost fifty years to be able to use it as I wanted -- and half the time I feel more like it's using me." 

"And you still have it around? You still use it?" 

"I thought about destroying it, but I was afraid that might lock you into this form forever." 

"And you too," Duo pointed out. "Since it obviously turned your spell into a curse and you got hit with backlash." 

"The skin isn't the worst of it." Trowa reached up and removed one of his contact lenses. The desire to surprise his friend a bit was probably the closest thing to a playful impulse he'd felt since he'd last seen him almost ninety years ago. When he turned his eyes on Duo again, allowing his friend to see one of them as it really was, he prompted a startled cry. 

"Whoa! What is going on there?" 

"Just another part of the backlash," Trowa said. "I used to have to wear sunglasses everywhere, including indoors, which made me look like an idiot... the invention of color contacts practically saved my life." 

"I bet!" Duo laughed. "Though you're probably pretty impossible to kill these days." 

"I've never tried," Trowa answered, completely serious. "I had to find you; dying wasn't an option." He added more quietly, "Don't think I didn't think about it, though." 

"Trowa..." Duo sounded horrified and sympathetic. 

"But now that I _have_ found you," Trowa hastened on, unable to stand Duo's pity when _Duo_ had been the real sufferer, the real victim, all along, "I can try to break the curse and put you back to normal." 

"I certainly wouldn't object to that." The caution in Duo's voice did little to hide a rising, desperate excitement, and Trowa felt his throat constrict. 

"I don't know if I can. You know how curses work." It pained him to say this, to admit that he wasn't certain he could do what they'd both been waiting almost a century for... but Duo had been without hope for so long; false hope now might end up breaking his heart, and Trowa would rather die than hurt him again. 

"But it wasn't a curse at first." Duo obviously knew his own danger, and was trying to speak levelly, trying not to get his hopes too high. He was failing, but at least he was trying. "It's possible just a normal counterspell can reverse it." 

Trowa stood up heavily, not entirely certain of his ability to do so until he managed it. He moved to stand before the table on which Duo sat, and looked down at him. "All we can do is try," he said.


	64. Plastic Part 15

  


The first thing Heero noticed when he entered his living room on the way to the kitchen on Tuesday morning was a door newly set in what had previously been a blank wall. Aware though he was that he needed to get used to magic, if not necessarily actually used to it yet, this sight was still so surprising that he was forced to stop and stare. 

It looked like the front door to a house; it was dark grey-blue with a bronze handle, and had a segmented half-circle of little glass windows set into its upper third. As he approached and peered through the glass at an improbable front hallway that, had it actually been there, would have cut right across his neighbor's apartment, he heard Duo's voice behind him. 

"Don't worry; it's not permanent." Heero turned a little reluctantly from the strange, interesting sight to where Duo sat, as usual, motionless on the end table. "It's the door to Trowa's house." 

"I guessed that much," said Heero, moving to stand before Duo and look down at him. "Why is it in my wall?" 

"I didn't think you'd mind," Duo replied apologetically, tilting his small plastic face upward and responding to Heero's skepticism rather than his question. "He wanted to get your permission first, but it must have been two in the morning by then so I told him to leave you alone." 

"I don't really mind," Heero said slowly, glancing back at the door, "as long as I never have to explain it to my landlord. But why is it here?" 

"Oh, because he lives on the east coast and it's easier for him to have the door here than to jump back and forth." 

"Why didn't he just take you with him?" Heero asked. Duo didn't immediately answer, and it struck Heero belatedly how the question might have sounded. "I'm not trying to get rid of you," he hastened to assure him seriously. "You're welcome to stay here as long as you want. But I got the impression from him last night that, once he found you, he wasn't going to let you out of his sight again." He _had_ been going to say 'to let you go again,' but amended his intention at the last second. It annoyed him that he had a crush, however undeveloped, on someone that was taken -- a circumstance he generally tried to avoid -- and he didn't want to think about it right now. What he _did_ want was his morning coffee, under whose influence he would speak a little less impetuously. 

"Yeah," Duo was agreeing, "he had a hard time leaving me here. I think he was afraid I'd be gone when he came back, and the whole thing would start all over." His voice lowered and softened a trifle as he added, "And can you blame him? God, I can't even _imagine_ what it's been like for him all this time. We talked for hours last night, and he told me plenty about it, but I get the feeling there's plenty more to say." 

Though not unsympathetic, Heero had to point out as he moved into the kitchen to start the coffee, "That doesn't explain the door." 

"Oh, sorry. He cast a few spells last night to try to put me back to normal--" 

At this point Heero interrupted him in surprise, "Here?!" Why it should be so startling that spellcasting had taken place in his own apartment he wasn't quite sure, but it seemed almost impossible somehow. Evidently he was farther from getting used to magic than he'd thought. 

"Yeah," Duo replied, and went on somewhat bitterly, "not that it worked. Obviously. Not that I blame Trowa," he added in haste. "This whole thing is crazy, and without actually having me around he had to just guess all along what he should be getting ready in case he met me. It's no wonder he couldn't come up with the right spell. 

"So he went home to look some things up. I wish he'd gone home to _sleep_." Now his tone was one of irritated concern. "Really, you people who actually _can_ sleep never value it enough. He was dead on his feet by the time he left, and how much wine did you guys _give_ him? And that ritual to link his door didn't help, but I bet he's been reading old books ever since then, and he'll come back in here later even _more_ tired and want to try more magic. And I've tangented again, haven't I?" Duo laughed a little. "You can't really blame me, though, since he's--" 

"No, I can't," Heero broke in, not terribly eager to hear the rest of that statement. "Go on." 

"Well, he's afraid the artifact -- did he tell you it was an artifact that caused all of this? Well, he's afraid that having me around it will just make things worse, so he didn't want to take me home just yet. Not until he's figured out some arrangement. He mentioned renting a room where he could put either me or the artifact so I didn't have to keep taking up space around here, but neither of us was really sensible enough to make actual plans last night, and now you say I can stay as long as I want..." 

"Yes," Heero agreed, in lieu of nodding since Duo wasn't looking in his direction. "You're not exactly much trouble." 

"_And_ I'm decorative," Duo added complacently. 

Heero was not about to agree with this aloud, especially since on the surface it seemed so stupid to be concurring about the physical merits of a _doll_. But after a short silence, shifting the subject, he asked, "What _is_ an artifact, anyway?" 

"An object that's constantly exposed to magic and starts absorbing it," Duo replied succinctly. "They're really useful when you need more power, but you have to watch out for them. Magic performed around them is _always_ affected, so if you have one and you're not specifically using it for the spell you're casting, it's usually a good idea to put it in another room so it doesn't interfere." 

"Well, that answers a lot of my questions," said Quatre, entering from the hall. He was ready for work, neat and professional as usual, dressed in some of the clothes he kept here against situations like this. Well, no, there really were no situations like this. Heero poured him a cup of coffee. 

Accepting this with thanks, Quatre went on, "Your Trowa told us a little last night, but I think he forgot we don't know anything about magic ourselves." 

Duo laughed. "I don't know how he'd even know that. How did he find you -- me -- us -- anyway? We were so busy being incoherent last night I never got around to asking." 

"He didn't exactly tell us either," replied Quatre, "but it seems like he saw a post we made about you on a message board, and used magic to come to where we were going to be yesterday evening." 

"He really _has_ gotten good," Duo murmured. "Figuring out where total strangers are going to be takes some doing." He brightened slightly. "And you guys were posting about me on a message board?" 

"We wanted to know if your story was possible," Heero answered. 

Quatre turned to him suddenly. "You'd better go get dressed." He gestured at the microwave clock, and Heero started. His dalliance here, where he'd only meant to come for a moment to start the coffee, was now in a fair way for making him late to work. "Do you want some toast?" Quatre called after him as he went. 

"If you're making some, sure," Heero replied over his shoulder. Quatre burned toast and had no concept of the appropriate amount of either butter or jam, but it was better than nothing. 

The last thing he heard from the living room and kitchen before entering his own room was Quatre's interested, "So, what's with the door?"


	65. Plastic Part 16

  


Yesterday had been difficult to get through at work, but it was nothing compared with today. It particularly didn't help that Quatre had two long meetings -- one of them at the downtown office -- where he really did have to pay attention and during which he couldn't email Heero. 

Poor Heero. He'd been agitated and impatient yesterday; he must be going crazy today. His disappointment must be greater, too, though he would never admit it; Quatre had had only the course of a single conversation to develop the beginnings of an interest in Trowa, but Heero had had Duo around for a few _days_ \-- weekend days, too, when they'd been free to spend a lot of time together -- before the truth became apparent. 

Quatre was lucky he enjoyed his job (or at least had the ability to be absorbed by it); he couldn't say he was perfectly distracted from thoughts of what might be going on with Duo and Trowa, but the day passed more quickly than he might have expected. It was five o'clock precisely when he locked up his office and headed for the car, and he started automatically for Heero's apartment without thinking. 

When he _did_ think, he reflected that he couldn't stay the night there again unless he went home first for more clothing, and that if he went home he might just as well sleep in his own bed. But for the moment he was definitely going to see what, if anything, was happening at Heero's place. He had a key, though he rarely used it since he was usually there _with_ Heero; today, arriving before his friend, he didn't scruple to let himself in. 

"Hey, hottie," Duo greeted from his table. 

"Hi," Quatre replied, setting his briefcase down on the kitchen counter and draping his jacket over it. "Still a doll, I see." 

"Yes," agreed Duo sullenly. "Hey, can you do me a favor?" 

"Sure." Quatre made his way over to the doll. 

"See this key next to my shapely cross-dressed legs?" 

Quatre laughed as he picked up the key. 

"That opens Trowa's door. He said that as long as he was invading Heero's home like this, Heero should have access to his too." 

"OK," said Quatre, amused at this concept of fairness. 

Duo waved an arm up and down, probably in a gesture that wished it could be pointing at the object of their discussion rather than straight ahead of him. "Can you go check on him for me? He hasn't been back in here since he linked the door, and that was about fifteen hours ago now." 

"Sure," Quatre said sympathetically, turning toward Trowa's door. He laughed a little as he admitted, "I'm really curious what it's like in there anyway." 

"So am I," said Duo, sullen again, "but there's that whole artifact thing..." 

"I'll tell you about it," Quatre promised as he inserted the key into the deadbolt lock. "Be right back, I guess." 

Through the windows in the door Quatre had been able to get some small idea of what at least the front hallway was like, but only from inside could the true eccentricity of the place be appreciated. The decorations and furnishings were sparse, but even so managed to form a sort of gradient of decades spanning almost the entire last century. Quatre's own house having been in the family for quite some time, he was no stranger to a somewhat unusual combination of styles, but this was beyond anything he'd ever seen. 

In the entryway alone his eyes ran over a dreadful hanging light fixture straight out of the 70's, an actual grandfather clock from who knew when, and a tall brass hat rack with attached umbrella stand. It came as something of a surprise to Quatre that he even knew what an umbrella stand _was_. When had he ever taken note of the existence of such a thing in his life? Sure, its intended purpose was blatantly indicated by the presence of an umbrella within -- one of those old-style gigantic black ones with a curved wooden handle -- but since when had the words 'umbrella' and 'stand' converged so easily in his head? Not that it was terribly important. 

This seemed a very small house; a narrow staircase led up to what was probably an attic and down to a tiny cellar, but other than that there only appeared to be a few rooms on a single level. The largest of these, to which the entry led, was a dining/living room and kitchen that stood in complete darkness until he found a light-switch. If Quatre hadn't already been reminded by the grandfather clock that this was a different time-zone, it would have been confirmed by the starry night sky visible through the dining room windows (between checkered curtains from the 50's, if Quatre was any judge, and possibly as old as the house). 

As there was no sign of Trowa in here, Quatre satisfied himself with only a single look around at an oak china cabinet with stained glass in its doors, and a laminate-top chrome dining table with matching chairs, before moving on. He found, for some reason, that he was taking care to step quietly and make as little noise as possible, but it wasn't out of nervousness or embarrassment -- rather, it was the same hush he would have affected in a library or even a sickroom. 

Given that the magician had found them via the internet, Quatre supposed he shouldn't be surprised at seeing that Trowa had a computer in the room to the left of the entry -- nor at learning that the chaotic computer desk was not a phenomenon limited to modern generations, even when the desk itself was an antique probably a century old. As this room was also unlit and uninhabited, he crossed the hall and opened the door to the third chamber. 

Here was light, and it was here that he found what he sought. The room was lined with bookshelves on both sides -- only one of them a good-old-fashioned solid oak affair, and the rest of a decidedly do-it-yourself variety no older than he was. The relatively narrow remaining space between was somewhat cluttered by a couple of similarly mismatched tables littered with books, papers, and miscellaneous objects. Another room, evidently a bedroom, lay past a door that stood ajar at the far end, and beside this sat Trowa in an armchair -- this one, Quatre thought, dating back to the 60's, to judge by its awful pattern. 

An open book lay in his lap, and several others were stacked on a table within arm's reach beneath the antique lamp that was the room's only illumination, but Trowa certainly wasn't reading at the moment. How long he'd been asleep was anybody's guess, but it was probably for the best; he'd appeared from the moment Quatre first saw him to need a good deal more sleep than he ever got. Even like this his face was serious and sad, and, though its unhealthy color did not look quite so bad in the low light, exceptionally pale against the colors of the cushion behind. 

He didn't so much as change the rhythm of his breathing as Quatre approached, nor stir as the book was removed from between his limp hands. Before placing this on the table with the rest, Quatre glanced at the pages Trowa had been perusing. The language was unfamiliar to him, so he didn't look long. In setting it down, he noticed a half-empty cup on the table -- a genuine teacup in an actual matching saucer -- whose contents were long since cold. Quatre gathered this up and switched off the light before leaving the room. 

There _was_ a dishwasher in the kitchen -- a surprisingly not-ancient-looking one at that -- but Quatre wasn't sure the little cup and plate were safe to be put into it. They were definitely too old to have the answer printed on their undersides, too, so in the end he just rinsed them and set them next to the sink. Then, with one more brief glance around, he made his way back to the front door and thence into Heero's apartment. 

He was greeted by the sound of Duo's hearty laughter. Heero was apparently relating some amusing tale of a co-worker in that dry way of his. Goodness knew he had enough amusing co-workers on the sales floor to furnish a lifetime of anecdotes; Quatre was never quite sure how he put up with them most of the time. 

They both looked over as he entered, which was a good deal less disturbing in Heero's case as Heero's head didn't swivel quite so distressingly. "He's asleep," Quatre announced. 

"Really?" wondered Duo in pleased surprise. 

"Well, in a chair," Quatre allowed. "He still had a book in his lap. He didn't look very comfortable, but I didn't want to wake him up." 

"That's a relief," said Duo sincerely. "He sure looked like he needed it." He proceeded without a pause. "So what's it like in there? How's he living these days?" 

After the enthusiastic interest in the doll's tone, Quatre wasn't much surprised when, as he began describing Trowa's eclectic house, Heero got up and slipped out of the room.


	66. Plastic Part 17

Trowa had reappeared in Heero's living room the next morning, looking, if not exactly _healthy_, at least a good deal better for the sleep he'd gotten. He didn't seem much happier, though; evidently yesterday's research hadn't accomplished much. 

"Breakfast?" Hero offered as he got the coffee started. Today he'd made sure to dress before emerging so that, if Duo distracted him again, he could at least dash out the door the moment he realized it had happened. 

Trowa looked at him a little blankly, as if he'd forgotten what 'breakfast' meant, and Heero was half-hoping he would decline the offer. Heero didn't make bad money, but it would probably put a strain on his budget if he had to start feeding someone else full time. He'd pretty much only offered because he was attempting to keep jealousy from marring his treatment of Trowa. 

"_Yes_, you want breakfast, Trowa," Duo prodded. He was turning out to be something of a nag where Trowa was concerned, and Heero was trying his hardest not to find this adorable. "_I'd_ like some breakfast too, thanks, Heero," he went on, "but only if you hand-feed it to me while I recline on a silken divan and Quatre fans me with one of those big leaves." 

"You want me to hand-spoon cereal onto your head?" Heero wondered dryly. Not giving Duo a chance to answer he said to Trowa, "I have honey Cheerios or Frosted Flakes, or toast, or maybe--" he glanced into the freezer-- "yeah, toaster waffles." 

"Oh, and dancing girls," put in Duo. "I want dancing girls too." 

"Toast sounds perfect, thank you," Trowa said. 

"What do you want on it?" Heero asked as he put the bread into the toaster and then looked for his own breakfast. 

"And live music," Duo continued. "From Spain, maybe." 

"Just butter, if you have it," said Trowa. 

Heero poured himself a cup of coffee and a bowl of cereal and, leaning against the counter, simultaneously watched the toaster and began to eat. 

"And I want a swimming pool of SG-1 boxed sets to swim in, and, Heero, you are so not listening to me." 

With a slight laugh Heero turned to deal with the toast. "No, I'm taking careful notes," he assured Duo. "Trowa, do you want coffee?" 

"No, thank you." 

"You know what you _could_ get me, though?" Duo said next. "Some real clothes. Not that you haven't done a great job with the paper towel, but it isn't very sturdy, and I don't really think it goes with my fabulous hair." 

Despite the frivolity of this word-choice, Heero got the feeling Duo was serious about this request. It seemed strange on the surface, but he supposed it made sense, really; a lack of proper clothing was probably just one more way for Duo to feel less like a person and more like an object. Heero wished he'd thought of it without having to be asked. As he came out of the kitchen to the couch, bringing Trowa his butter toast on a plate, "I'll see what I can do," he said. 

On and off throughout his nine hours (including lunch) he pondered this issue, and by the end of the shift had decided that he wouldn't go home again without clothes for Duo. As he wasn't entirely certain where one went to buy doll clothes, he waited for Quatre to finish being a workaholic for the day so he could ask him. 

"Wal-Mart?" Quatre suggested with a tilt of his brows. "Why did you expect me to know this?" 

"You have more sisters than I do." 

Quatre gave him a skeptical look. "Well, we'll try Wal-Mart." 

In the back of his head Heero had always been aware of the existence of that all-pink aisle that seemed to be found in every Wal-Mart in the country; even just walking past the toy section it was impossible to miss. He hadn't really given it much thought, however; if he had, he probably would have decided he never, never wanted to go there. But here he was entering the headachey lane of brightly colored doom, half determined and half embarrassed out of his wits. 

"So I guess this is it," Quatre was saying as they looked around somewhat helplessly at the aisle's unfamiliar products and one other shopper. The latter, a little red-headed girl, had obviously been watching them since they stumbled into her territory, but was pretending she hadn't. 

Heero nodded, feeling increasingly out of place with each moment that passed and trying to get his eyes to focus on something -- _anything_ \-- on the racks in front of him. 

"I feel like I've accidentally walked into the ladies' room," Quatre murmured. And it _did_ feel very much like that... they weren't welcome here. 

"There aren't any Barbies in the ladies' room," the little girl said, sotto voce and disdainful. 

"They're all staring at me," Heero muttered, having got his eyes to focus and not liking it much. They just _hung_ there in their boxes, unmoving, identical, and looming. 

"They're just _dolls_," the red-headed girl replied, again under her breath but a bit louder this time. 

"This was a bad idea," said Quatre, seeming to shrink into himself as if to get as far from either side of the aisle as he could. "We should never have come here." 

"Duhh," said the little girl. 

Heero looked desperately from one blank, vapidly-smiling face to another, feeling as if he was going colorblind. "They're all female..." 

"The Kens are over _here_." The red-headed girl was now speaking at a normal volume, still utterly contemptuous, and pointing to a spot on the shelf a little further down. Wordlessly, hesitantly, Heero and Quatre approached to look where she indicated. 

Seeing that here was, indeed, what they sought went a long way toward lifting the glamour of terror and inadequacy that had fallen over them the moment they set foot in this alien world. But as Heero stared at the single Ken outfit for sale -- some type of powder-blue polo-like affair with a grey-and-white sweater-vest _attached_ and matching blue loafers -- he felt with sinking heart that this whole dreadful experience might have been a dreadful waste of time. 

Quatre reached for the outfit, but Heero stopped him with the stony announcement, "I can't see him wearing that." 

Quatre seemed glad to pull his hand back empty, but he did protest, "It's the only one." 

"Well, the dolls have to come with clothes _on_..." Heero crouched, putting himself face-to-face with the only actual Ken the store seemed to have. The doll stood stiffly, grinning foolishly, in a narrow box that looked for all the world like a pink coffin. If Heero hadn't already gotten past his disbelief that Duo had once been human, this might have done something to convince him; there was a frightening soullessness to Ken's eyes that was, thank god, entirely absent in Duo. Also, he was wearing a pink suit coat. 

"No," said Heero. 

"You notice he doesn't even rate an actual tie..." Quatre remarked in a hushed voice, horrified and fascinated. And, indeed, the purple tie adorning Ken's chest was painted onto a shirt-front that Heero didn't think was even a separate piece from the jacket. He imagined taking this monstrosity home to Duo, shuddered, and pulled out his cell phone looking for Mapquest. 

"You should go online," the little girl was advising. "There's a much better selection there." 

"We kinda wanted it right away," Quatre explained. 

Heero wasn't looking, but he could almost _hear_ the expression the girl was giving them both. 

"It's for a birthday tomorrow," said Quatre weakly. It wasn't like him to make up pathetic excuses; moreover, there was a wariness to his words that sounded like it could blossom into panic at any moment. Clearly the aisle was getting to him. 

"You'd be better off getting a Barbie horse or something," the little red-head replied wisely, though there was still a hint of suspicion in her voice. "Nobody cares what Ken wears." 

"But..." Quatre faltered. 

"Come on," Heero declared, not entirely free of panic himself but with a brief thrill of triumph as he found what he was looking for. "There's a Toys'R'Us on 32nd street."


	67. Plastic Part 18

When they made it back, scarred and triumphant, to Heero's apartment, Duo again expressed his surprise at their lateness, and this time got through his question about their work hours that had been interrupted the other night. 

"We were clothes-shopping for you," Heero explained. 

"Oh, really?!" Duo's words were a good deal more indicative of excitement than the slow, awkward movements of plastic limbs by which he shifted his entire body to face them. 

Heero went toward him, holding out the package so Duo could examine the outfit. The doll made an appreciative noise at the button-up shirt and khaki shorts, and reached his arms out as if he wanted to hold it, though that was clearly out of the question. "Blaine was the best thing to ever happen to Ken," he remarked complacently. 

"What?" Heero wondered. 

"Blaine was Ken's boyfriend during Ken's bi-curious phase in the mid-90's," Duo explained. "Ken came out of it with much better fashion sense." 

"Seriously?" asked Heero. 

"Definitely." Duo nodded his plastic head. "Blaine was a surfer, and he taught Ken not to dress like he had a stick up his ass." 

"No," Heero said impatiently, "I mean, did Ken really have a bi-curious phase?" 

"Yeah. I guess Mattel figured they'd made Barbie do everything they could think of, so they might as well give Ken a turn. It didn't go over well with parents, though, so they dropped it pretty quick. I think that's why Barbie doesn't sell as well as she used to; people still aren't over it." 

"That's understandable," said Heero. "I mean, predictable." 

"He's messing with you, Heero," Quatre put in, laughing. "I think Blaine was _Barbie's_ boyfriend for a while while she was broken up with Ken or something; I remember hearing about it somewhere. And Ken did _not_ come out of it with better fashion sense; we _know_ this; we were _just_ at the store." 

"Well, they _did_ re-image him," said Duo, grinning as widely as his frigid mouth would allow at Heero's subsequent grumbling about having no need to know this kind of thing and that Duo should be grateful for the present since he had no idea what Heero had gone through to get it. "He got a few better outfits out of it." 

Heero broke off grumbling to ask, "So you like it?" 

"Yes, definitely," Duo said emphatically. 

"Good." It was that gruff tone of Heero's that indicated slight embarrassment; Quatre recognized it, but doubted Duo did. He thought that this time it was more because Heero had bought clothing for a guy he liked and not had his offering rejected than because he'd bought doll clothing at a toy store. 

As Heero began trying to tear the package open, Quatre inquired casually, "Where's Trowa?" 

Duo waved an arm; although this movement was always the same, contingent upon the configuration of limb and shoulder, Quatre was beginning to recognize the different intents Duo put into it. This one was, _Oh, somewhere over there..._ "He's researching again. Hopefully he fell asleep again. I get the feeling he hasn't slept more than half how much he should have over the last eight bazillion years." 

"I'll go check on him," Quatre volunteered with alacrity. Heero made a noise that might have been a snort and might only have been a sound of frustration at the difficult package. Quatre ignored him and moved toward Trowa's door. 

The little house was again dark and quiet, but this time as Quatre entered he heard Trowa's voice from the room to the right: "Who's there?" 

"It's Quatre." He pushed through the door, which had been open just far enough for a line of dim light to shine out across the entryway. 

From the horrible chair at the other end of the room Trowa looked over at him. His expression was vague, as if his thoughts were still primarily elsewhere, and he repeated, "Quatre..." slowly and as if he didn't at first understand what was going on. Finally he seemed to shake himself, more mentally than physically, though he did sit up a little straighter, and said, "Did you need something?" 

"Actually," Quatre said, moving farther forward into the room and the lamplight, "I was wondering if _you_ needed anything." He smiled. "I don't know anything about magic, but if there's anything else I can do to help you while you work..." 

Trowa stared at him somewhat blankly. "Such as?" 

"I don't know," Quatre said with a slight shrug. "It looks like this room at least could use some straightening up. Your teacup's empty -- can I get you some more? Or how about dinner? Have you eaten?" 

Trowa's attention seemed to drift even farther from Quatre as he echoed, "Eaten...?" 

Quatre sighed. Even if this man _didn't_ already have an extremely interesting cursed boyfriend, what chance was there for someone that couldn't even get himself noticed? 

This reaction, at least, Trowa seemed to observe. "I'm sorry," he said, setting aside the book he'd been reading and standing. "It's very kind of you to offer." He stretched slightly, and Quatre noticed that the button-up shirt he wore was, in fact, buttoned all the way up to the neck, though no tie adorned the collar. "I don't mean to ignore you." 

"That's all right," said Quatre charitably. "You've been lost in those old books all day, I bet." 

Trowa frowned slightly as he glanced at the one he'd just put on the table, and said nothing. 

"No luck yet?" Quatre assumed. This conversation was proving rather tough going. 

Trowa shook his head. 

"Well, some dinner will do you good." He turned toward the door. 

"I... don't think I have any food here." 

Quatre turned back. "_No_ food?" 

"There... may be some... lettuce..." 

Both of Quatre's brows rose. "_Some lettuce_?" He supposed echoing each other's words was as effective a way to communicate as any. 

"I don't remember--" Here Trowa was interrupted by the sound of an old-fashioned and rather awful doorbell ringing in the entry. His frown instantly grew into a scowl. "Would it be too much to ask you to answer that for me?" 

"No, not at all," Quatre said automatically, turning, but hesitated before taking even a single step. "Is it the real door? How do I open it onto the real outside?" 

"Just concentrate on it." Trowa was already walking back toward his bedroom, as if to put as much distance between himself and the unknown visitor as possible. "If they ask for me by name, tell them they have the wrong address." 

Shrugging as Trowa disappeared, Quatre moved out into the hall and toward the door. Even as he approached, thinking about opening it onto whatever actually lay outside, the view through the little windows shivered and darkened, altering so that, instead of seeing into Heero's apartment where his friend was berating a talking doll for convincing him that Ken had been gay even for a little while, he made out a wooden porch with peeling green paint in the yellowish glow of an old porch-light. And there were two people waiting.


	68. Plastic Part 19

On occasion -- a very rare occasion -- someone would ask Duo why he flirted so outrageously with every adult he talked to. The real answer was that he'd spent so much time with children -- played with by children and taking part in their games, watching children's television and movies, listening to children's music and their books read aloud, and even being considered an object designed exclusively _for_ children -- that any opportunity to reconnect with the adult world was welcome. There were more meaningful ways of doing so, of course, but pointed and often suggestive flirtation, he'd found, was quick and reliable. 

He never actually gave that answer, though, since he hated the question so damn much. It seemed to imply that, from a doll, any expression of romantic or sexual interest in a non-doll was unnatural and out of place. Therefore he usually answered by flirting even more outrageously than before. 

So when their discussion of bisexual Ken led Heero eventually to ask him, "Since when does a doll care so much about gay issues anyway?" Duo was less than pleased. Heero was a reasonable sort, and would undoubtedly understand if Duo pointed out seriously that being a doll really made very little difference in his interests and concerns -- but Duo didn't feel like answering seriously. 

"When I'm surrounded by so many faaaabulous gay men," he said flippantly, "_of course_ I care." 

"How do you know we're all gay?" Heero wondered. 

"Well, Quatre I'm not so sure about," replied Duo pensively, "but you're obvious." 

"Am I?" 

"Come on, man, you've got an _end table_. Do straight guys buy end tables?" Duo was able to tap his plastic hand against the table, which was very satisfying after so many gestures that didn't even begin to indicate the desired object. 

"It was a present from my parents," Heero replied a bit stiffly. 

"Oh, do they know you're gay too?" 

"Why are we talking about this?" demanded Heero. 

"Isn't it part of the gay agenda?" Duo responded lazily. "'Sit around talking about how gay we are?'" This won him a slight laugh and a certain amount of relaxation from Heero. "You're right about one thing, though," he went on a little more seriously. "A doll doesn't really have to worry much about discrimination. Well, parents might get rid of me for being a bad influence on their kids because I'm gay, but they'd probably already have gotten rid of me just for talking in the first place." 

"So you do actually identify specifically as gay," Heero confirmed. 

Heero was odd... he was certainly a nice guy, and a lot of fun to talk to, but just beneath that outward friendliness there was a sort of coldness or hardness that Duo couldn't seem to get past. It was as if he was only superficially involved in the situation, doing what he did out of actual altruism rather than any real interest. It was a shame, since Duo thought _he_ might otherwise have had a real interest in Heero. 

"Ever since..." Duo paused ponderously. "1969. There wasn't really a 'gay identity' for gay people back when I was human -- though there were plenty of us wandering around -- but I got to watch the whole culture change. The 60's _sucked_," he added thoughtfully. "It isn't necessarily a good thing when you _can't_ openly be identified as part of a certain group, even when that group is the butt of some horrible decade." His voice sank lower as he remembered. "When you want to help... when you want to stand up for something... you'd rather..." 

He trailed off; this was becoming far more serious than he'd intended. Heero was behind him, in the kitchen, probably getting some of that food stuff that Duo, even after all this time, tried very hard not to miss desperately; so Duo couldn't see him or how he might be reacting to the uncharacteristic solemnity of topic and expression. Nor was Heero saying anything. Well, he would just _have_ to say something; that was all. "So what about you?" Duo demanded brightly. "How long have _you_ been out of the closet?" 

The silence behind him went on for a few moments, though the sound of cupboards and dishes indicated Heero's continued presence. Finally Heero said, "I'm not sure you could exactly call me 'out of the closet.'" 

"Well, your parents obviously know," Duo pointed out, "since they gave you the end table." And he patted the table beneath him again with satisfaction. 

Heero laughed faintly. "Yes, my parents know. They don't like it much, but they know." 

"And Quatre obviously knows." 

"What do you mean, 'obviously?'" wondered Heero a little suspiciously. 

"What do you mean, what do I mean?" Duo replied innocently. 

"We have a couple of friends who won't stop trying to hook us up, and if you start doing it too I will..." He paused, evidently searching for a suitable threat. "...take you to Goodwill." 

"No!!" Duo cried, trying not to mar the drama by laughing. "I mean, OK, I won't. So Quatre is definitely gay too, then." 

"I thought he was more obvious than me," muttered Heero. 

Duo laughed again. 

"Actually that's part of why we were friends in the first place," Heero went on reminiscently after a few moments. "It's scary to realize you're gay in high school, and having a friend helps. He was braver than I was; he was out to all his friends by the time we graduated. _I_ didn't go out with anyone until my sophomore year of college." 

"Well, you've got me beat," Duo said encouragingly. "I never 'went out' with anyone ever. Or to college, actually. I've been to elementary school, though. Usually in someone's backpack, but at least I got to hear about times tables and _The Voyage of the Mimi_." 

This made Heero laugh once more, less faintly than before, as he came to sit on the couch beside Duo with his dinner a little more comfortably than he'd been moving or speaking for the last few minutes. This was the reason Duo had changed the subject; Heero obviously wasn't entirely easy talking about gay issues -- which was probably what he meant when he said he wasn't exactly out of the closet -- and Duo didn't think it advisable to push him. Though if he'd been human, perhaps... 

For the moment, Duo reached down to the remote control that was conveniently positioned next to him and turned on the TV. "It's about time for _Ghost Hunters_, I think," he said.


	69. Plastic Part 20

  


Trowa's bedroom window was tiny, the home of more than one spider's web, hidden by a dingy old curtain, and not positioned well for any good view of the front door. Despite all of this and despite being almost certain he knew who was probably on his porch on a Wednesday night outside of normal visiting hours, Trowa was looking through the window trying to see what was going on. He may actually have looked because he _didn't_ want to know, and would therefore derive some satisfaction from not being able to see; that was definitely the reason he didn't use magic to find out. 

Eventually he wandered away from the pleasantly unhelpful window and sat down on the bed, and it was there that Quatre found him on entering the room. The gift basket in Quatre's hands and the puzzled expression on his face confirmed Trowa's assumption. He did pause looking puzzled for a moment, though, long enough to glance curiously around the room. 

"How many were there?" Trowa asked. 

"Two." Quatre's baffled expression returned as he fixed his eyes on Trowa. "Teenagers, I think, a boy and a girl. They shoved this at me before they said anything--" he held up the basket a little helplessly-- "and then asked if Mr. Barton was at home. That's you, I assume." 

Trowa nodded. 

"I said no one with that name lived here, and they apologized about ten times and were backing away like I was going to do something awful to them. I couldn't even give the basket back because they were so busy apologizing." He smiled a little as he looked down at the object in question. "There's food in it, though; at least it's some dinner for you." 

"Was the girl wearing a low-cut shirt or a short skirt?" wondered Trowa. 

"Yes..." Quatre looked over at him. "Do you know her?" 

"No," said Trowa, then added simply, "but they all wear that." He rose and made his way out of the room, leaving his visitor to follow. If Quatre was determined to feed him, it might as well take place in the dining room as was appropriate. 

"Just as I was closing the door," Quatre was saying as he trailed Trowa through the house, "I heard one of them say something about their dad getting a spell wrong. So they obviously knew who you were _and_ that you're... magical... Who were they and what did they want?" He was obviously immensely curious; at least some of it was going to have to be explained. 

"I am a hundred and eleven years old," Trowa said with a slight sigh, turning on the lights in the dining room and kitchen. "I can do nearly anything." So far the line seemed to be drawn at breaking the curse on Duo. "Among magicians that makes me a... sort of... celebrity..." 

Quatre grinned admiringly; Trowa had seen him do that once or twice already, and it didn't bode well. "And your fanclub brings you fruit baskets?" The latest example of such an offering crunched slightly as Quatre set it down on the table and began pulling oranges out of it. 

"They bring me a lot of things." It was fairly useful on the rare occasion that he wanted to eat, or when the hopefuls had the presence of mind to give him something more useful than food... but it never came free. First it was, _"Oh, Mr. Barton, you did such a nice job charming Rebecca Thomas's garden for her back in 1973!"_ \-- because the magical community had dreadfully accurate memories like that -- _"You **have** to tell me how you did it!"_ But this turned into, _"Wow, what a complicated spell! How do you keep that level of energy up?"_ Which became, _"Well, can you teach me?"_ and eventually, _"I could be your apprentice! Would you train me? I could work for you... I'll clean your house and bring you anything you need and make all your meals for you!"_ Then they got a little bit older and it was more along the lines of, _"My daughter's really good at fire spells, and she'd love to hear any tips you have on the subject... she's a nice girl; I'm sure you'd really like her."_

And now here he had one that he couldn't ignore or dismiss. He hadn't worried about leaving a key to his house at Heero's apartment because Heero obviously didn't like him very much; he hadn't realized Heero's friend might be the one taking advantage of it. Of course he was grateful to both of his new acquaintances for their kindness to Duo and the fact that they'd posted on that message board in the first place... but that didn't mean he was eager to have one of them in his home being admiring and helpful. 

"Either you really like oranges," Quatre was remarking, "or someone really thinks you do." 

"I do like oranges," said Trowa. At least he was fairly sure he did. His followers tended to remember what he liked better than he did these days. 

Quatre bustled about the kitchen, occasionally exclaiming in wonder or amusement at what he found there, and Trowa felt somewhat powerless to stop him. It was ironic, really; he could jump instantly to just about any place in the world, fix complicated machinery without having the faintest idea how it worked, and essentially destroy anything that annoyed him... yet it seemed that, in the few areas of his long and empty life that actually meant something to him, he was consistently helpless. 

Not that it was any more than he deserved. 

But he _would_ find a way to restore Duo's humanity. He would figure this out if it killed him (which seemed more than likely, when he thought about it). No standard counterspell had worked, and no divination had given him any hint as to what he should be doing instead, nor the specific mechanics of the curse... but there had to be _something_. He refused to believe this was destined to go on forever. That might be an appropriate fate for him, but not for Duo. 

During the course of these reflections he'd lost track of what Quatre was doing, but now found him at the table gesturing and smiling. He'd set a place for one, and now stood behind the chair like a butler welcoming his master to supper. 

"It's a strange dinner," he said ruefully, as if he had been personally responsible for the selection, "but there really _isn't_ anything in your fridge. Not even lettuce." 

Trowa looked down, observing orange segments and apple wedges on the plate next to three cookies and some slices of what seemed to be some kind of cake or bread with raisins in it, and a glass of water. It _was_ a strange dinner, but he might as well eat it, since it was here. "Thank you," he said, and sat down. 

Quatre just smiled and leaned back against the kitchen counter. 

"Don't stand there watching me eat," Trowa ordered. 

"Sorry." With a slight laugh, Quatre began moving around the room, examining things he must have missed while preparing this little 'meal.' 

"You're welcome to eat some of this too," said Trowa eventually, a little less rudely (he believed). 

Quatre turned to look at him, mildly skeptical. "_I_ have food at home. You can save the rest of that for tomorrow." Yes, he was obviously going to be one of _those_... the ones that insisted Trowa 'eat properly' and 'get enough sleep' and always wanted to make sure his linens were clean. 

In an attempt at nipping this in the bud, "I don't need food," Trowa stated flatly. "I have a part in Duo's curse; I can't die." 

Quatre nodded. "Yes, that was the impression I got," he said calmly. "But eating can only be good for you." 

Trowa considered pushing the plate aside and leaving the table to make his point, but he'd caught the smell of the orange segments by now, and his stomach had remembered, as it did at times like this, what food was and that it _liked it_; so he really didn't have the option of walking away at the moment. Without a word he started to eat. 

This burst of sensation always took him by surprise. He _did_ like oranges. He liked _food_. It was just so explosively, unexpectedly enjoyable... which of course came with its own problems. Because he could never start enjoying something this much (or at all, generally) without an immediate kickback of guilt and self-loathing. He, who had doomed his best friend to a life without this kind of pleasure, did not deserve to be taking any pleasure in it himself. So what started out as quick and eager ended up tedious and forced. 

And Quatre was watching him again. 

"Stop that," Trowa commanded. What he really wished he could say was, 'Leave me alone,' but he was aware of how little good that generally did. Once they got into the house, it was next to impossible to get them to leave; the trick was to keep them from entering in the first place... but this one had a key. 

This one also appeared better able to take a hint than most, for he stood straight and said, "Well, I'll get out of your hair now that I know you've eaten. Duo will be relieved to hear that, too." 

"Duo sent you?" Trowa wondered, relenting a little. 

"Not exactly," shrugged Quatre. "Last I saw, he was getting an earful from Heero for fooling him into believing Mattel had made gay Ken dolls. But he did say he hoped you'd fallen asleep, since he doesn't think you get enough sleep." 

Trowa was silent under a fresh weight of guilt. Duo, who couldn't sleep, who had specifically mentioned how much he hated his inability to sleep, whose inability to sleep was _entirely Trowa's fault_, was worried about how much sleep Trowa was getting. 

Quatre stood in the doorway leading to the entry as if waiting for an answer, and Trowa got the feeling that, if he could just give one, Quatre would go away. So with an effort he said, "Tell him... tell him I'll sleep tonight." 

Quatre smiled and nodded and was gone. Trowa listened to the front door open and close, then looked down at the plate whose contents he doubted he could finish. 

Perhaps he really _would_ sleep tonight.


	70. Plastic Part 21

  


Heero's official job title was Pacific Division Sales Coordinator, but a better one would have been The Guy Who Fixes All The Mistakes Of A Third Of The Company's Sales Staff. Normally this didn't bother him too much; there was something about redoing a really shoddy piece of work to a higher standard, then taking a good long look at the finished product from arm's length, that satisfied him intensely. But this entire work week had been an impatient nightmare from beginning to middle, and he almost felt he couldn't get through the two more days of cleaning up after his co-workers that lay between him and the weekend. 

Not long ago, if anyone had asked him what he would have been looking forward to doing on this particular evening, he would have (besides wondering why they cared) mentioned the first of the NCAA regionals. But things were different now that there was a wizard (or whatever Trowa preferred to be called) with access to Heero's living room. Duo could be human again any time, and then he and Trowa might be off without a word. 

Heero was curious to see more magic, and more specifically he would very much like to see Duo's curse lifted. He wondered what Duo would look like as a human. Sure, the doll face gave a _fairly_ good idea, and Heero imagined the hair would be about the same... but living flesh, more nuanced facial expressions, body language... How tall would he be? Were his eyes really that intense and improbable shade of blue-purple? Heero was exceedingly interested in all of it. 

So the work days had been dragging, and today's tedium was an ominous indication of what tomorrow would be like when the current situation was compounded by the usual impatience of a Friday. At least, though, between today and tomorrow (provided he could survive today) there was Duo. And it didn't matter how often or how vehemently he reminded himself not to think that way. 

Most of this he relayed to Quatre in a grumble at lunch, and found Quatre more than ready to agree. Though Quatre's reason for wanting to be away from the office was more along the lines of, "Do you know that Trowa doesn't _eat_ unless someone's there to make him?" 

"That explains his reaction to breakfast yesterday," muttered Heero. 

"By the way, how's the tenth for tennis?" 

It took Heero a moment to shift gears, and another to try to remember what he might or might not be doing two weeks from the coming Saturday. But finally he said, "Fine, I think. I'll tell you if it turns out I'm doing something that day." 

Quatre nodded. 

It seemed strange to be making plans to do normal, non-magical things with their normal, non-magical friends. It was like they'd started living in another world and were scheduling a step out of it for a day. Which was stupid, since barely anything in their actual lives had changed. Sure, there was a talking doll on the end table in Heero's living room, which room also contained a door that opened onto a magician's house across the country, but what difference did that _really_ make? 

Or so Heero kept trying to tell himself. 

Having satisfied the tennis question, Quatre's thoughts had also undoubtedly gone back to the matter of their new friends, for he said pensively after swallowing a mouthful of turkey sandwich, "We could use some time off, I think." 

"I certainly wouldn't object," Heero replied. 

Quatre nodded again. "I'll see what I can do" -- reminding Heero yet again that there were benefits to having the Pacific Division Regional Manager as your best friend. 

Even after what felt like the longest four hours of Heero's life -- really, this was _not_ boding well for tomorrow -- he still couldn't quite go home yet; it was his turn to provide the snacks, so he _had_ to stop at the grocery store this time. And as long as he was at the store already, his overriding logic wouldn't let him leave until he'd done _all_ of his grocery shopping (though admittedly somewhat in a hurry). But thereafter, _finally_, it was time to go see Duo. The game, that is. The basketball game. It was time to go see the basketball game. 

He had high hopes of making a true college basketball fan out of Duo. The doll remembered not only the rules, but the general workings of the tournament and that their team was already out of the running. In fact, he required very little further tutoring to seem like he had a fairly good idea of what was going on at any given moment. And his cheers, necessarily rather quiet though they were without a real diaphragm to support them, were always properly timed and must have bolstered the team had they been there in person. 

"You know I have never eaten pizza in my life?" Duo said a little wistfully during a commercial break. 

Quatre stared at him. "That is so sad," he said in perfect seriousness. "This stuff you get at the grocery store and cook yourself isn't as good as the stuff you order, though. 

"But it's a lot cheaper," Heero put in, defending his frugal snack choice. 

"Oh, I'm not complaining," said Quatre hastily, "just letting him know. We wouldn't want poor impressionable Duo getting the wrong idea because we're eating inferior pizza." 

Heero rolled his eyes and turned away from his friend back to Duo. "As soon as you're human again, we'll feed you all sorts of things you've never had before." 

"Is that a promise?" Duo grinned. 

"Sure," said Heero. 

Trowa wandered in near the end of the game and stared blankly at the TV as if he'd never seen one before -- though in reality he had witnessed the _evolution_ of television. What a strange life he must had led, Heero thought without much sympathy. At least his appearance spared Quatre the trouble of going to look for him, once the game was over, to make sure he ate or whatever. 

"Oh, hey, Trowa!" Duo said happily. Duo was always _far_ too happy to see Trowa; it was a consistent and irritating reminder. "Come watch basketball with us!" 

Trowa moved to stand beside the table where Duo sat, still gazing somewhat uncomprehendingly at the television. Heero thought about offering him a seat on the couch in the empty space between himself and Quatre. Quatre probably would have liked that, but Heero had no real desire to sit next to Trowa -- so he said nothing and let him keep standing. 

"He may not know what basketball _is_," Quatre was saying in a teasing tone. "I don't think he even has a TV." 

"No TV?!" Duo demanded in horror. "Trowa, when did you become such a godless heathen?" 

"When television was invented, apparently," replied Trowa. 

"Well, at least have some pizza," Quatre offered, holding up the plate that contained what was left. 

"No, thank you. When is your game over?" 

"Maybe about ten more minutes." The proffered pizza was retracted with, Heero thought, some displeasure. 

"I'll come back," said Trowa with a nod. "There's a spell I want to try." 

This caught everyone's interest, but Trowa was already moving toward his door again, evidently not planning to offer any more details. So they all turned back to the game until such time as he should satisfy their curiosity. Heero thought Duo's attention span for basketball had significantly waned, however. Which was really for the best, he supposed, at least for Duo; what was the point of having a boyfriend if you didn't find him more fascinating than television?


	71. Plastic Part 22

  


Quatre had intended to leave immediately after the game, but the opportunity to watch Trowa working magic was not one to be missed. This entire business really was wreaking havoc on everything Quatre needed to get done at home. 

A large square board of some sort, carried very carefully under one arm, and a box full of candles accompanied Trowa when he returned. Quatre and Heero watched in silence as he knelt down, laid the board on the floor beside Duo's table, and set the box next to it. Heero didn't look entirely pleased at the idea of something to do with candles taking place on his carpet, but evidently didn't think it enough of a concern to say anything yet. 

Duo was also watching, from the table's edge to which he'd painstakingly levered himself, but not in silence. "That's really familiar," he remarked when the network of careful lines on the black-painted board became visible. After a moment he added thoughtfully, "It looks like our end of the Wade." 

Trowa nodded, and picked up the first of his candles in one hand. The other held a piece of chalk. He tapped a spot where two lines converged. "This was where the first grocer in the district opened his store." 

"I remember that!" Duo agreed. "Took 'em long enough, too... that racist guy on 7th street wouldn't serve half the people across the river, so they had to go clear to the south end market to go shopping." 

"It was convenient for us, too," Trowa said, drawing a circle around the spot and setting the first candle in it. 

"Yeah," laughed Duo, "finally someplace that was close enough for the vegetables not to wilt by the time we got them home!" 

"Not that we bought many vegetables." 

Duo laughed again. 

"And here--" Trowa tapped another spot-- "was the printers' that put out that awful rag for so long." 

"Hey," Duo protested, "I loved that paper!" 

"Their 'news' was always at least two days old," Trowa reminded him emotionlessly, "and it wasn't always true." 

"Welllll..." Evidently Duo couldn't argue with this. "We still wouldn't have survived without them, and we got to know the city really well selling those things. Besides, that was the only paper most of the waders could afford most of the time." 

Trowa nodded, circled this second spot, and set a candle on it. 

"I bet the next one's that church that used to give us lemonade if we came around on Sunday afternoons," said Duo eagerly. 

Quatre had been watching and listening in almost breathless interest, and now he really did catch his breath as Trowa looked up at Duo again and actually smiled. It was a faint, sad smile, but it was the first Quatre had ever seen on that face and was, as he had anticipated, enchanting. He had a feeling, though, and not for the first time, as Trowa and Duo reminisced about their early years, that this was all a little too personal for him and Heero to be listening to. It was nothing like what he'd expected when Trowa had said 'spell.' 

"Yes," Trowa was saying, indicating the point where lemonade had evidently been served to pious urchins. "Do you remember the woman with the peacock-feather hat?" 

"Yeah, I was just going to say!" Duo cried. "And how we always tried to wait 'til she was gone because she'd always make us tell her what the _sermon_ was about, and most of the time we hadn't actually been to it?" 

"And you always looked up at her with your eyes wide and said, 'God, ma'am, and the commandments.'" 

"And it wasn't a lie because that's what _all_ the sermons were about," Duo chortled, "but she'd get so annoyed because she wanted to hear us say we were miserable sinners!" 

"I believe the building is still there," said Trowa as a third circle and a third candle took their places at his hands, "but I don't think it's used as a church anymore." And his chalk moved on. "And here was where Jaelle Petulengro lived." 

"Yes! With her fifteen dogs!" 

"Only five," Trowa corrected. 

"Whatever," said Duo, his little plastic mouth stretching into a grin. "She still had to burn all that incense all the time because the place smelled like pee. I don't know how she ever had any business in there." 

"By catering to people like us." 

"Yeah, but she hardly ever charged _us_." 

"Only because she thought of us like her own children." Trowa drew a circle around the old woman's spot and stood the second-to-last candle there. "And this?" he asked as he tapped a fifth point on the chalk-marked board. 

After considering for a moment Duo said, "That house we always used to want to live in." 

"That's right." 

"And it took us ten years to realize that it wasn't really anything special," chuckled Duo, "just bigger than the ones on our street." 

"It did have its own yard," Trowa reminded him, circling it and setting down the final candle. 

Duo made some comment about the house in question having seemed like a giant mansion to them when they were ten, but Quatre was distracted from his words by the brief glow that rose from the board as Trowa withdrew his hand: faint lines connecting the five candles, soft but brighter than the chalk-marks they topped, had shone out for a moment and then faded. _That_ was more like what he'd been expecting, and the fact that Trowa had formed a pentagram by linking together memories from the days before the curse interested him quite a bit. 

"And here is where we lived." Trowa tapped a spot in the center of the five candles. 

"Well, this looks very solid," Duo said in a tone of commendation as Trowa rose up and took him in his hand. "Is this to scale, though? I mean," he explained as Trowa set him down on that last-referenced spot, "were those things all _exactly_ that far from our place?" 

"Close enough," Trowa replied. 

"Well, that's good enough for me," Duo grinned. "What do you want me thinking about this time?" 

"Those days. What it felt like to be human." And without even the slightest change in his level, emotionless tone, he went on in a completely different language. At his words, the candles all simultaneously lit, startling the two non-magical watchers but not seeming at all to surprise Duo. 

"Can do," the latter was saying. "Actually, it's getting me to _stop_ dwelling on that stuff that's the hard part." 

Trowa sighed quietly, doubtless at this reminder of a suffering for which he still felt responsible. Then he held out his hands over the pure white flames of the candles as if gathering warmth into his palms, which he subsequently rubbed slowly together. Quatre shifted a half-step closer as Heero at his side also moved slightly. Both of them were looking down in silent interest, extremely curious about what would happen next. 

Again in the unfamiliar language from which Quatre couldn't pick even one single word he could have imitated, Trowa began to speak. The phrase that formed his spell did not seem terribly long -- though this was little more than a guess on Quatre's part -- but Trowa spoke so slowly as to draw it out for more than half a minute. 

As he finished, the lines of the pentagram flashed into being again, brighter this time, and suddenly _everything_ \-- the entire room? the entire world? certainly Quatre's entire field of vision -- filled with an indistinct brilliance, a sort of glowing haze that momentarily blinded him. Beside him, Heero made a surprised noise and took a step back. 

Shapes and colors came slowly into view again, and Quatre saw that Trowa was still kneeling on the carpet and now had fists clenched on his knees and a decided frown on his face. Even as Quatre's eyes sought him out he spoke again: more words in the strange language, this time a shorter phrase and discernibly agitated. But their only effect, as far as Quatre could tell, was to extinguish the flames and make all the lines on the board -- the magical ones _and_ the chalk-marks -- disappear. Duo was left sitting in a field of black in the center of five unlit candles. 

"Dammit," Trowa murmured. 

Duo sighed quietly. Then, in a tone that was obviously meant to be cheering, he said, "You're going to have to specify next time, 'And don't just show me the stupid moon, OK?'" 

Trowa's hand moved to cup around Duo's back in a movement almost caressing, and then he slowly lifted the doll back onto the end table. Without a word he began replacing the candles in their box. 

"Trowa," Duo insisted, "it's _all right_." 

With an indrawn breath, Trowa opened his mouth as if to reply, then closed it again and shook his head. He stood, lifted the box, pulled the board up under his arm, and turned. 

"Trowa!" said Duo again, and now there was a touch of desperation to his voice. "This one didn't work, but maybe the next one will. Don't--" 

"I'm not giving up," Trowa broke in harshly. He'd already pulled his door open, and without looking back he was gone. 

"I wasn't going to say that!" Duo yelled futilely after him. His yell wasn't much louder than his regular speech, but the tone was angry and unhappy. "'Don't blame yourself,' I was going to say, dumbass!" He made a frustrated noise, and then his voice sank to a miserable low. "As if I'd ever think you would give up on me." And then complete silence fell.


	72. Plastic Part 23

  


Heero was staring at Duo. Quatre was staring at Trowa's door. None of them were saying anything, and it was dragging on. Intense curiosity and the desire to be comforting and the awareness that there really wasn't much to say that could comfort someone in such a situation and a tight, unhappy feeling in the pit of his stomach in response to Duo's last words all warred inside Heero, and he felt it safer, at least at first, to say nothing at all. 

It was Duo himself, in fact, that eventually broke the silence. "Well, that sucked." He added with a sort of false cheerfulness determined to put a good face on a bad situation, "Another day as a doll, here we go!" Before either of the others could think of anything to say in reply, he went on in a more genuinely pleased tone, "He's _really_ gotten good, though! I wonder how long it took him to come up with that ritual..." 

This remark sounded very much like permission for them to ask questions, if not in so many words. Heero got his in first, moving to retake his previous seat on the sofa next to the end table: "What was the point of remembering all those places?" 

"Oh... well... It's kinda hard to explain." Duo's tone seemed to indicate he would have been scratching his head if he'd been human. Heero had never met anyone with such an expressive range of vocal inflection, and wondered if it was a skill Duo had always possessed or whether he'd developed it over the long years of having such a limited array of other forms of non-verbal expression. 

"See, that was actually a divination trying to find out how to change me back -- so I might have had another day as a doll anyway even if he'd gotten his answer, depending on what it was. Anyway, there's another kind of magic I could never do -- I can't do divination either; I could only ever do your basic making-things-happen kind of magic -- but this other stuff's all about the mind: communication, mind reading, getting power from thoughts and memories and stuff. So he was using memories of before the curse to help divine how to get back to that -- making a sort of connection back to those days to grab some extra power." 

"OK..." Heero nodded slowly. "That makes sense." 

"Really?" Duo grinned. "Awesome." 

"What did you mean about the moon?" was the next question, this one from Quatre. 

"Oh, that's the answer that keeps coming back on all these divinations. Not very helpful, since we _know_ it was that stupid lunar artifact that did this." 

"You know," Quatre said thoughtfully, "I've been over there a few times now, and I don't know if I've seen the thing. What exactly _is_ it?" 

Since Quatre had posed his question, Heero had been puzzling over it in the back of his head even as he listened. He'd thought Quatre's experience watching Trowa's spell had been the same as his, but in that case why should Quatre need to ask this? 

Duo was saying, "I think Trowa said it was--" when Heero broke in: 

"Quatre, didn't you see the moon?" He made an apologetic gesture at Duo for his interruption and went on, "After the first thing Trowa said, didn't you get a sort of vision of the moon blocking out everything else?" 

Quatre stared at him. "No, just a bunch of light. Did you?" 

"Yeah," replied Heero a little uneasily. "It was very clear." 

"What does that mean? That you saw it and I didn't?" 

They gazed at each other for a long moment, then as one turned to Duo for the answer. 

The doll didn't have a great variety of facial expressions. There was his default blank look, which reminded Heero disturbingly of the Kens he'd seen at the stores, and there was a wider and far less creepy grin; then he could wink either of his eyes, but that was about the extent of it. At the moment, however, it looked as if he was trying very hard to give an amused, interested smile as he replied, "Off the top of my head, I'd say it means Heero has magical abilities and Quatre doesn't." 

"Really?" Quatre turned a grin much like the one Duo was attempting toward his friend, apparently not at all bothered that he might be left out of the magical loop. 

"Me?" Heero wondered in surprise at the same moment, almost certain he didn't like the idea. 

"I could be wrong," said Duo in his 'shrug' tone. "But that's usually what it means when you get a vision during a divination." 

Quatre looked very much as a proud parent might after a child's successful musical recital, and also a little as if he found the revelation rather funny. 

Heero, on the other hand, couldn't quite accept it. "Is this magical ability anything like Ken's bi-curious phase in the 90's?" he wondered, a sardonic tone covering up his continual unease. 

Duo laughed, half reminiscent and half rueful. "You're never going to believe anything I say ever again, are you?" He grinned. "If you can find another explanation for why you got a vision that's only supposed to appear to magicians..." 

Heero frowned. "Shouldn't I have noticed a little earlier, though? Can you have magic for twenty-four years without knowing it?" 

"You have to be around magic for your own magic to wake up," Duo explained. "So presumably you could go your entire _life_ without knowing it. For me and Trowa it was this old gypsy lady in our neighborhood -- the one with the five dogs. For you, apparently, it was yours truly." 

This silenced Heero utterly. He didn't really disbelieve it, and the thought that it had only come about because of Duo made things a little better. At the same time, however, there was something disconcertingly... intimate... something far more appealing than it had any right to be when Duo was so unavailable... about the thought that Duo, by his mere presence, had awakened something heretofore unknown inside of Heero... and this made things, in another sense, much, much worse. 

Quatre the perceptive friend jumped right in to rescue him. "Well, that's exciting!" he said brightly. "You can learn to do all sorts of cool stuff, and maybe some of those message board posts will start to make sense!" 

"Yeah," Heero replied gruffly. 

"You don't _have to_, though," said Duo reassuringly, evidently misinterpreting the discomfort Heero had been unable entirely to hide. 

Heero forced a faint laugh. 

"Well, I've got to go home," Quatre said, somewhat reluctantly. "But I'll see you both tomorrow." 

Heero rather wished Quatre could have waited until they'd come up with a change of subject before leaving, but understood this wasn't necessarily possible. "OK," he said. 

"More basketball tomorrow, right?" Duo wondered eagerly. 

Quatre cheerfully confirmed this assumption as he located his briefcase, and then he was gone. Heero was glad the subject had been brought up -- now he could talk about tomorrow's game until he left the room to go to bed, and leave thinking about Duo awakening his magical potential until he was alone.


	73. Seeing Red Part 39

  


On a Friday afternoon like most Friday afternoons -- most Friday afternoons _before_ Kenshin, that is -- just as Sano was headed out of class, as usual, toward the bus stop, already pondering what he was going to have for lunch and whether homework or the playing of video games was likely to come first today, the phone he'd just barely powered back on started to ring. 

Looking at the number, Sano frowned. It seemed familiar, but wasn't one of his contacts, nor something he immediately recognized. He didn't think he had any bills overdue, so this probably wasn't anyone he would be _too_ annoyed talking to. So he went ahead and answered. 

"Sano?" 

It took him a second to recognize the voice, not only because he'd never talked to her on the phone before but because something was different in her tone. 

"Kaoru?" 

"Yeah. Hi." She sounded simultaneously less hopelessly miserable than every time he'd been around her, and a lot more hesitant and uncertain. She probably thought he would think her weird for calling almost a week after everything had ended. 

"Hi," he echoed in immediate concern and desire to put her at ease. "How are you doing?" 

"As good as you could expect... maybe a little better than before. I'm calling because I was hoping I could... talk to you..." 

"Yeah, of course," he assured her earnestly. 

"Have you talk to me, mostly, actually. I know I was a little... out of it... when you guys left on Saturday. I was hoping you would tell me everything that happened that I couldn't really listen to before." 

"Yeah, sure." He looked around. Not about to be That Guy having a phone conversation during his entire bus ride -- especially a conversation about the ghost that had been haunting him and the mob secretary he'd met during the course of dealing with it -- he made for a nearby bench. As he threw down his backpack he began, "Actually a lot of the stuff you'll want to hear I only got from Hajime; I didn't see it myself. But I'll try to make it interesting anyway." 

"OK." She sounded grateful and just the tiniest bit amused. Which was a very good sign, as Sano had never heard even that tiniest bit from her before. 

He gave her all the details of the visit to Gains at the U.S.Seido headquarters, including what had happened after he'd passed out; this led to an explanation of how he and Hajime had come to investigate that seemingly very random avenue in the first place, which led to a hasty reassurance about what the police did and didn't know, including, to the best of Sano's ability, a word-for-word imitation of what Hajime had said to Chou about Kenshin's death. He also relayed much of what Hajime had told him about his discussion with Kenshin, omitting only the parts that would be of interest solely to someone with a magical talent for interacting with the dead. This all took a while, and his phone had done that heating-up thing it sometimes did on lengthy calls before he was finished. 

When he concluded, "And I'm pretty sure that's everything that happened that you'd want to know," she gave a drawn-out sigh. He was also pretty sure she'd been crying through at least part of what he'd had to say. 

Now she said, "Thank you so much. This has all been really strange and horrible for me, and I really appreciate you talking to me about it." 

"Any time," he replied. And to underline his sincerity he added, "And I mean that. I don't know how much it's likely to help, but, seriously, call me whenever you want to talk." After all, though he hadn't managed to get to know Kenshin in time to be his friend, there was no reason he couldn't get to know Kaoru and be hers. 

"Thank you," she said again. "I think I'll probably have to, some time." 

"'Have to?'" he echoed. "I'm not _that_ bad to talk to!" 

And without a sour edge to it for the first time he'd heard, she laughed. "No, sorry," she said. "It's just... I may need a lot of talking before..." 

"Yeah, definitely," he agreed. "I totally understand." Just as he had at her apartment last week, he felt a little awkward trying to offer the dubious service of his conversation to someone with as long and hard an upward road as she had before her, but he didn't shrink from the task. "Seriously, call me any time." 

She thanked him yet again, and added, "And say thank you to your friend for me, too, would you? I have his card still, but... I don't know... it seemed like..." 

"He's a lot more professional than me?" Sano tried to keep the bitterness of the last five days out of his tone. 

"Well, he was polite and everything, but... yeah, professional's a good word. It was all just work to him; it seemed like you cared more." 

This was such a pricklingly accurate summary that Sano could barely confirm it and promise that he would, nevertheless, relay her thanks to Hajime. If he ever happened to talk to him again. 

"I'll let you go," she said next. "Thanks again." 

"No problem at all." 

When the call had ended and Sano sat staring unseeingly at the phone he didn't want to put back in his pocket until it had cooled down a bit, he found himself in an ambivalent mood. This conversation, he felt, had been a very good thing; Kaoru now had all the information available, which would surely help in her recovery -- not to mention, for what it was worth, the awareness that Sano was there for her whenever she needed him. And she even seemed to be doing a little better than the last time he'd seen her. This was all calculated to please him... but then, naturally during the course of such a conversation, Hajime had come up, and thinking about Hajime right now was _not_ calculated to please. Not that Sano hadn't been doing it all week; but he'd at least been free of it (mostly) for the last several hours. 

That Hajime could possibly be ignorant of Sano's interest in him, Sano could in no way bring himself to believe. Therefore, the fact that he'd heard nothing from the man since their awkward goodbye on Saturday could only be, he thought, an indication of Hajime's specific _dis_interest. Which shouldn't be even the tiniest bit surprising: that was what Sano had believed of him pretty much the entire time. As Kaoru had said, it was all just work to him. 

But they hadn't known each other very long... how could Hajime dismiss him with so much surety after only a week's acquaintance? Of course that same limited time period meant Sano didn't know that it wasn't just as likely things really wouldn't ever work between them, but that was no reason not to give it a try! All Sano wanted was a chance; was that too much to ask? 

Or, if Hajime really was dead-set against the idea -- didn't like men, for example (which, Sano had to admit, would be a pretty solid reason to dismiss him with so much surety) -- he damn well could have _said something_ to that effect. 

Not that _Sano_ had actually said anything. He'd been on the verge of doing so a number of times, but hadn't ever gotten the words out. Somehow the casual statement of interest he'd never had a hard time giving anyone else had just been really difficult with this guy that was comradely one minute and all business the next. And now he hadn't heard from him for six days. It seemed that ship had sailed. 

And that was when the phone in his hand began to play the mournfully angry song his pique halfway through the week had authorized him to purchase as a ringtone for Hajime's number. 

His heart-rate seemed instantly to double and time simultaneously to slow as the name appeared on the screen just when he'd convinced himself that would never happen again. His fingers fumbled unbearably across the keys, nearly initiating a couple of different 'reject call' options by accident on the way to answering. And his "Hello?" definitely came out a good deal more quiet and hoarse than he could have wished. 

"You don't have call waiting." Still no actual greeting. Sano had never decided whether or not he thought that was a good sign, but at least nothing had changed. 

"Yeah," he found himself explaining at unnecessary length, "for some reason, my crappy service charges, like, two dollars extra a month for that. Same with call forwarding and voicemail. You'd think those would all be basic features, but I guess if they can make some extra money on 'em, why not?" 

"You need a new provider." 

"I'll think about that as soon as this phone dies. It's still got a couple months left." 

"You should be able to afford a new one sooner than that; it's the 26th." 

"Oh, yeah, it is! Shit!" Sano wasn't sure whether he was more astonished or amused to find that, in light of his annoyed disappointment about Hajime, he'd actually managed to forget the massive check that was currently sitting on his kitchen counter. 

"So you need to cash a check and see a doctor," Hajime said, and it was clear that amusement was _his_ foremost reaction. "I thought you might want a ride." 

Well, so far, so professional -- both of those things had to do with the ordeal last week, and the offer of a ride was probably merely another part of Hajime's unspoken apology for stabbing Sano in the shoulder. Sano wasn't going to tell him just yet that he'd pulled the stitches out himself because they'd become annoying, and that therefore Hajime didn't need to pay any doctor to do it for him. Though it probably would have hurt less if he had. 

"So you called to offer to drive me around," Sano said probingly. 

"That, and ask if you wanted to assist in a job I'm working on." 

Sano bit back the immediate affirmative that sprang into his throat, and asked instead, "What kind of job?" 

"People shouldn't move into a house where someone has recently died without having the place checked out first," Hajime remarked, sounding a little irritated despite the fact that such people kept him in business. "I took care of the red shade in the house, but one of the children had already internalized enough of it to cause some serious problems." 

"And you don't want to stab the kid," Sano grinned. 

"Not particularly. There's a share of the fee in it for you, if you're interested." 

'Interested' was a bit of an understatement. Just the thought of doing that kind of real, official work in the field of necrovisual magic _with Hajime_ made Sano almost giddy. He remembered Hajime referring to him as his partner a week ago and the rush that had given him at the time... and now Hajime was essentially asking Sano to fulfill that function. Either that or 'using a specialist' as he'd also mentioned once in Sano's hearing. In any case, it was money and work he didn't hate and recognition of his abilities and time spent with Hajime all in one. _Of course_ he was interested. 

On the other hand, the offer, obviously even more than the ones that had preceded it, still fell very much in the realm of the professional. There was no saying that Hajime would have called him, that Sano would ever have heard from him again, if there hadn't been last week's business to clean up and this week's business to pursue. This was _all_ about business, and that was a huge puncture in Sano's ballooning glee. 

But that didn't mean he was going to make the same mistake twice. Not after he'd spent the entire week wondering whether he should call Hajime to say what he hadn't managed to say on Saturday. The level of discouragement Hajime had doled out -- deliberately or otherwise Sano had never been able to decide -- had made it pretty evident that a direct statement such as, _"I'd kinda really like to make out with you,"_ was probably not a good idea... but now that this line was open, he wasn't going to hang up until he'd at least said _something_. 

"You know a share of the fee's not all I want, right?" And maybe even that was too direct, but he'd said it now. 

"There may be some pizza and beer in it for you as well," Hajime replied. 

It wasn't just the words, but their immediacy -- Hajime's complete lack of hesitation in speaking them -- that flooded Sano with a hot, energizing excitement and happiness. This seemed a pretty clear indication that Hajime was not averse to giving Sano a chance at winning him over -- or, at the very least, that he would be happy to spend time with him. Because there was no promise of a ghost now. Nothing professional. Just Sano. Hajime had already specifically established, in fact, that Sano was not even a little bit professional. 

"And anime?" Sano didn't bother trying to keep his emotions out of his voice. 

There was a hidden grin in Hajime's reply, "That depends on what I'm in the mood for. It may be _Law and Order_." 

"I can handle that. And what about lunch right now?" With this he was pushing just for the sake of pushing. 

"You are a worthless freeloader," Hajime declared. "And I've already had lunch." 

"I can't absorb shade on an empty stomach!" 

"We'll find you a drive-thru on the way to the clients' house." It didn't even sound as if Hajime was giving in, merely adjusting his plans as required. 

The ecstatic Sano would have adored to continue this conversation right up until the moment Hajime actually appeared in the flesh in front of him, but the beeping that had arisen in his ear forced him to say, "Hey, my phone's about to die. You know how to get to the school?" 

"Of course." 

"Well, I'm in front of the Statton Building." 

"I'll be there in twenty minutes." 

"My pants have big red chains on them that match my hair today; you can't miss me." 

"Idiot." And Hajime hung up. 

Sano squeezed his phone and shook it in a gesture of triumph and delight, laughing simultaneously under the same influence. A chance was what he'd wanted, and a chance, it appeared, was what he was getting. Well, he had wanted, and _still_ wanted, more than that, but a chance was all he'd thought it totally reasonable to ask for. And now he had it: proof that this wasn't actually hopeless, and an opportunity that he was certainly going to make the most of. That exorcist was going to find Sano capable of haunting just as tenaciously as any ghost. 

Huge happy smile undiminished, Sano nudged his backpack onto the ground, lay down onto the cool bench with one arm behind his head, turned his gaze up into the cloudless blue of the sky, and waited for Hajime.


	74. Plastic Part 24

An entire week off at such short notice for two employees that everyone knew were friends and many suspected were more than friends was something only a Regional Manager could procure, and then only with the understanding that said Regional Manager would still be on call for every little emergency that upper management (nearly all of whom were relations) wanted dealt with at his level. Quatre was satisfied.

He also didn't consider it in any way inappropriate to leave just a little earlier than usual today. If anyone had asked him why, he could easily have made the excuse of wanting to beat traffic and get to Heero's apartment before the game started. Which _was_ true. And which _would_ have caused some speculations among those that had an incorrect idea of his relationship with Heero that he _would_ have considered inappropriate. But nobody asked him.

It hadn't been an easy day to get through -- even just reaching lunch time was more along the lines of 'nightmarish' -- but when he saw how much worse Heero was taking it Quatre could at least be pleased with his own powers of concentration. Of course, _he_ didn't have to deal with the sales floor. Yes, some time off was exactly what they needed. A week should be enough for them to get things sorted out, and then they could come back to work and be productive employees again.

Admittedly this sorting out might well involve Duo's curse being broken, and then he would undoubtedly be off with Trowa, and then Quatre and Heero would never see them again and would be left in the 'getting over an unrequited crush' stage and be very _mopey_ productive employees... but the result, and hence the basic concept, was largely unaltered.

Though the same thought had evidently crossed Heero's mind, he also seemed quite pleased at the prospect of a week off. And the moment he was back home and with Duo, he seemed fine in every respect. He'd evidently even gotten over the discomfort of last night regarding the magic thing, and could talk cheerfully to Duo about basketball and whatever else came up.

Quatre, however, was not nearly so at ease. It wasn't that he paid _no_ attention to the game... it was just that his eyes were on the door in the wall almost as often as they were on the TV. How likely it was that Trowa would come in here two nights in a row he didn't know, but he could hope. Heero noticed his behavior and gave him a look or two, but Quatre couldn't stop himself. And the very moment the game was over, he was off the couch and headed for Trowa's door.

"Oh, are you going to go check on him?" Duo wondered. "Good."

Reflecting on the absurdity of 'checking on' someone that had gotten along for ninety years without this service, Quatre replied that he was, and Heero gave him another look. This Quatre ignored, and went into Trowa's house.

Once again, the moment he stepped into the entry, he was greeted by Trowa's query, "Who's there?" from what Quatre was coming to think of as the study.

"It's me," he replied as he entered that room.

Trowa didn't look up from whatever he was doing at his table, nor did he have anything at all to say in response to Quatre's identification of self, and it occurred suddenly to Quatre to wonder exactly _why_ he had a crush on this man. As he went closer, into the globe of soft-edged light from the single lamp, and saw the disarray of the table and once again the now-cold remains of a cup of tea, he considered that pathos definitely had something to do with it. It had always been his habit -- rather unfortunately, he thought -- to assign greater importance to early impressions than they probably deserved, and Trowa had certainly been pathetic during that first meeting. And it had also always been one of Quatre's habits to feel a greater-than-usual interest in anyone he pitied.

Other than that, though... an attractive face and body, a mystique consequent upon being a taciturn hundred-year-old wizard... and what else was there? It was true there was something to be said for instinct, but Quatre couldn't help feeling a bit shallow. What did he _really_ know about Trowa?

As he came to stand beside the table and the armchair drawn up to it, Trowa finally looked at him -- sluggishly, as if his eyes were reluctant to release what they'd been studying and move elsewhere. But when they rose far enough for Quatre to see them, he took an inadvertent step backward in surprise.

From the first, Quatre had noted the unnatural brightness and vibrant hue of Trowa's eyes, and if he'd thought about it would have realized that this was probably caused at least in part by color contacts. These were obviously absent now, baring the two glowing moons, nearly at the full, that Trowa had in place of the more traditional irises and pupils.

"Yes," Trowa said impassively as Quatre stared, "if you come in here without warning, you may see things you won't like."

Quatre shook his head, as much to clear away his startlement and break off his riveted gaze as to deny the implication. "Well, they're definitely a surprise," he admitted, "but I don't think..." He trailed off.

For Trowa had stood abruptly, taken a step forward, and put his pale face much closer to Quatre's than anyone that wasn't flirting or instigating a fistfight generally did. "Take a good look," he said emotionlessly, "so you won't have to stare again later."

It didn't really matter that it might be a little shallow to be infatuated with someone without knowing much about him; the infatuation was there whether he liked it or not. And it was evident that Trowa had rather fallen out of synch with the rest of the human world in the last however many decades, since leaning like that was a _blatant_ invitation to be kissed and he obviously didn't know it. Quatre would gladly have enlightened him, in a very practical way, if Trowa hadn't been someone else's boyfriend.

Quatre also managed, while these thoughts were passing through his head, to take the adjured good look at the eyes in question. They were nicely-shaped eyes. The strange glowing moons _were_ somewhat disconcerting, especially when they moved as irises and pupils would have done, but they were also very interesting: peering intently, Quatre could make out a familiar pattern of craters in tiny detail on each one.

The moons didn't really detract from the overall picture once you were accustomed to them, either; a more remarkable feature, in fact, was the lashes. Funny he hadn't noticed before... Trowa had the thickest, most obscenely long and beautiful lashes Quatre had ever seen on a man. They swept down over his eyes when he blinked in very much the same way his hair fell across his face: a sort of soft veiling motion that almost invited more than it concealed.

Abruptly Trowa broke their locked gaze, turning back to his table and picking up his teacup and saucer with a clatter. Then he moved past Quatre out of the room.

Quatre took a deep, steadying breath, and moved slowly to follow.


	75. Plastic Part 25

  


Trowa was rinsing out his cup in the kitchen sink without looking at it. In the back of his head arose the vague thought that he could do with some more tea, but it never jumped the synapse to the next concept over of _making_ more tea. So he dried the cup, again without looking at it, and put it away. Then he rested his hands on the counter and continued to stare blankly across the dark room -- he hadn't bothered to turn the lights on when he came in here -- thinking about nothing. He would have liked to think he was thinking about spells and what he'd been working on all day, but what he'd been working on all day had been practically nothing. 

"So..." 

Oh, yes, and Quatre was in his house again. The fact that Quatre was _still_ in his house again despite having seen his eyes was interesting, apropos of nothing. 

"Yes?" 

Undoubtedly Quatre was going to ask, and Trowa was going to have to explain. Curses were arbitrarily cruel things that would stab you in the heart just as readily as they stabbed you in the back, and the necessity of explaining this particular effect of this particular curse had become just another effect of the curse. And now Quatre would ask, and Trowa would have to talk about it. 

But what Quatre actually asked was, "Do you know how to play Blitz?" 

Trowa looked over at him, broken from his empty stare by the unexpected nature of this question. "No." 

"I'll teach you, if you want to play." Quatre held up a pack of cards that Trowa recognized as his own. He occasionally played solitaire to regulate his thoughts, and, though he didn't remember when he'd last done so or where the cards had been, Quatre had obviously spotted and seized them. 

Turning fully to face his guest, Trowa wondered, "Why?" 

Quatre reached out to the light switch and brought the room to better visibility. "Last night's spell was really interesting," he said, not exactly answering the question. "And Duo said you've gotten really good, and wondered how long it took you to come up with that. I'm sorry it didn't work." 

Trowa felt his mouth tighten, and he left the kitchen and went around the dining table toward the windows at the far side of the room. As he stared out into the darkness of his overgrown little yard, he heard Quatre moving toward him. 

"You've been working on magic stuff for god knows how long without a break," Quatre went on matter-of-factly, "and it would probably be a good idea to think about something else for a while." 

Quatre had evidently stopped at the table. There was the sound of cards being shuffled, and Trowa pondered the situation. He couldn't quite figure out what Quatre was after. He hadn't asked for anything yet, not even some pointless display of magic to gawp at; he seemed genuinely concerned with Duo's predicament, and Trowa's state as it related thereto; and he hadn't wondered, at least aloud, about Trowa's eyes. Any one of these things by itself Trowa might have been able to deal with, but all together they formed a sort of barrier to comprehension. 

Then there was the fact that Trowa had no idea what to do next for Duo. His hopeless, rambling research since last night's failed attempt at getting information had been slowing more and more as the day progressed, until by the time Quatre had entered he'd simply been staring at a book without any real idea of what was in front of his eyes. At a point like that, Quatre was absolutely right: it was about time to think of something else for a while. And why not some inane card game he'd never heard of with his enigmatic new fan? 

"All right," he said, turning, and took a seat at the table across from Quatre. 

It wasn't nearly as bad as he'd been anticipating. The rules were just simple enough to make the game relatively mindless, the sort of soothing, repetitive exercise that calmed the nerves and put the brain back into some sort of ordered channel without too much effort. Then, Quatre did not require him to speak except as the game demanded, and in fact filled the silence himself with talk that was a good deal less tiresome than Trowa would have expected. 

For example, as they played Quatre told him, "I'm the youngest of ten, and my two sisters -- the next ones up -- we used to play a lot of card games when I was eight or nine. They were just enough older to take advantage of me every single time, and I was just young enough to be completely unable to catch them or to ever prove anything even though I was suspicious. They would announce rules they 'forgot to mention' in the middle of the game -- usually whenever things were going my way -- to make sure I lost, and, when I protested, they'd back each other up and act all innocent. 

"And then they started betting things. I don't even really know how they kept getting me to play with them, when I knew I always lost and they'd end up taking my stuff. I guess it was because they would bet things of theirs that I really wanted -- things they never would have really given me even if I had won -- things I was too dazzled by the prospect of owning to be smart about not playing made-up card games with sisters who cheated all the time. Eventually my parents found out, and it became a new family rule that dad or mom had to be present for all card games between minors." 

To his own surprise, Trowa found himself asking, "Did you get your things back?" 

Quatre grinned. "Not only that, but the next game, under mom's supervision, I won an entire _Deadpool_ mini-series off my sister fair and square. I still have it, too." 

Trowa wondered, and not for the first time, what it would have been like to be a child, instead of an antisocial young elderly man, in the 90's. 

Quatre went on to tell him about that same sister's successful career in an advertising firm and ongoing unlucrative side-projects as a 'real artist' -- all of which was moderately interesting, required no comment from Trowa, and got them through a number of games of Blitz. 

When the clock struck three, Quatre looked around, startled. Then he shook his head. "I forget it's three hours ahead here. Where are we, by the way?" Trowa told him, and Quatre nodded. "I should come around in the day some time and see the town." He stood and began gathering the cards, both from the tabletop and from Trowa's lax hands. "For now I'll let you get back to work." He smiled. 

If Trowa had been a bit more flippant, even just inside his own head, he might have started a countdown at this point. As it was, he was simply satisfied with knowing it was coming. 

"But you should probably get some sleep instead," Quatre said, precisely as expected. "Reset your brain, and then you'll work better tomorrow." 

And the worst part was that he was _right_. At least he hadn't said anything about food this time. Trowa just nodded. 

Quatre set down the pack of cards neatly filled and closed. "Good night," he said, and smiled again before turning. He had a remarkably warm, welcoming smile, especially for someone that hadn't asked for anything yet -- so much that Trowa thought the room actually seemed a little darker once he was gone. Not that it really mattered. 

But then the moment he was alone, Trowa found himself wondering what in the world _Deadpool_ was.


	76. Plastic Part 26

Heero was not a morning person. He did what he had to, of course (part of which was being to work on time at eight every day), but in general the world before ten o'clock seemed to him something like the setting of a horror movie -- and the monsters were those perky people that could do equations and complicated analysis and be polite to obnoxious others at only the slightest notice upon awakening. On Saturdays he made sure to stay safely in bed until the coast was clear.

The problem with sleeping late, however, was that, no matter how nice it felt to awaken in his own time without an alarm, he was always rather sluggish for a while unless he had some specific task to see to immediately. Most weekends this didn't bother him, but right now, with Duo around, he preferred to be a little more alert. So as soon as he was out of bed, he turned on some music a little louder than was his habit, and headed for the kitchen to start his coffee immediately.

"Good morning!" Duo greeted him cheerfully from his end table.

Before replying, Heero reminded himself firmly that Duo couldn't sleep and therefore could be neither night person _nor_ morning person at this point. "Morning," he finally said.

Duo had muted the television with the remote lying by his side; as Heero got the coffee going he asked, "So what are we listening to?"

It occurred to Heero that he was a little too accustomed to living alone; he hadn't even considered that his wakeup music might inconvenience Duo. This, of course, sent his thoughts out to the happy field of 'living with Duo,' whence he quickly reined them in because that kind of thinking wouldn't do anyone any good. "Prisn," he answered the question.

"Never heard of it," said Duo promptly.

"Yeah, most people haven't," Heero yawned. Turning his back on the gurgling of the coffee-maker, he leaned against the counter and looked at Duo. "So what kind of music do you like?"

"Mexican circus music," Duo replied after a moment's thought.

Halfway through another yawn, Heero felt his brows contract in confusion. "What?"

"Well, I don't know if it's really Mexican or what..." Duo waved an arm vaguely. "In one place I lived, there was a Mexican family next door, and they used to play this stuff really loud so we could hear it too. Drove my kid's parents crazy. It was this really cheerful, upbeat stuff that sounded like what you hear in circus scenes in movies, and it was all in Spanish. I think." As a sort of aside he added, "I speak maybe ten words of Spanish, and that's Wade Spanish anyway."

"And that's..." Heero stared at him. "That's your _favorite_ music? Something you heard through a wall and didn't understand?"

"You asked." It was Duo's 'shrug' tone, but there was a grin involved as well.

"But..." Heero couldn't quite explain why this baffled him so much. How could someone over a century old be so lacking in any decisive opinion about music? "Didn't you live through the jazz era? Didn't you pretty much live through the development of all modern styles of music?"

"Well, yeah, but mostly with kids! I mean, if _you_ had to listen to things like Mr. Green Jeans and Muffy Mouse and Hanna Montana for seventy years, you'd appreciate some Mexican circus music too!"

Heero laughed. "OK, I see your point." Then he moved forward, picked up Duo in the hand that wasn't holding his newly-filled coffee mug, and headed for the hallway. "But I think this is something we need to fix."

"Onward!" cried Duo in his small voice as he was carried away from the place he'd occupied for almost the entire time he'd spent in Heero's apartment.

Entering his bedroom, Heero felt a slight, unaccustomed embarrassment about its state. It was true that he only tolerated mess up to a point, but he knew that sometimes that point was farther along the clutter scale than others' -- certainly farther along than Quatre's. However, the only thing Duo had to say was, "Ooh, I finally get to see your _bedroom_." Which Heero really should have been expecting.

"Yes," replied Heero calmly, and then just couldn't help adding, "Remember what I told you about being a very good boy?"

"Is _that_ what we're doing?" Duo said in a deliberate tone of pleased surprise. "I mean, that's definitely something we need to fix too, but I thought you were talking about music."

Deciding that he probably couldn't get away with the response he was considering, Heero just chuckled again as he set Duo down on his dresser next to his CD player. The doll began swiveling his head back and forth in a wide arc, examining the room. "Oh, you've got that cool hands-drawing-each-other picture," he commented, waving an arm.

Heero nodded, unzipping the binder that held his CD's and beginning to flip through it. Duo turned his painted eyes in that direction and watched him. "So what do you call this stuff?"

"What stuff?" Heero looked up at him, forgetting that there would be no facial expression from which to obtain a hint about Duo's meaning. Not that he minded looking at Duo: it was always thought-provoking to see the plastic body in those little clothes Heero had bought beneath the long and bizarrely realistic hair, and Heero still liked to imagine what Duo would look like as a human.

"This music that's playing," Duo said.

"Oh. Well, this group's ten fans," replied Heero ironically, "call it 'experimental-hard-rock-slash-neo-classical-fusion.'"

"How pretentious," remarked Duo in his 'grin' tone.

Heero shrugged. "It sounds better than 'our orchestra has electric guitars.'"

"You know how weird it's been to watch this whole 'genre' thing develop?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, there's half a million different kinds of just 'rock' now, aren't there? I mean, I remember where all there was on the radio was 'pop' -- and for a while they were calling _all_ of that 'rock'n'roll' -- and 'country-western.'"

"Really?" Heero had found the CD he wanted, and was spinning it somewhat absently around his finger while he waited for the song currently playing to end. "No classical or jazz or anything?"

"Oh, yeah, I guess there was that... But you didn't hear people talking about 'trance' and 'thrash metal' and whatever the difference between 'hip-hop' and 'rap' is... which, by the way, what is it?"

"I'm..." Heero grimaced. "...not really sure..."

"Can't be important, then," declared Duo.

Heero's expression needed very little alteration to go from grimace to grin. "OK, you've heard enough Prisn; now listen to this." And he switched the CD.

"All right," Duo agreed jovially.

They might not have found Duo a new favorite, or even broadened his musical horizons to any great extent, but Heero at least was enjoying himself so much that he rather lost track of the rest of the world for a while. He was only brought back to it, with something of an unpleasant jolt, when Duo remarked eventually, "Trowa really likes jazz."

Because it always came back to Trowa, didn't it?

When Heero had nothing to say in response to this, Duo went on a little wistfully, "At least he used to. He was pretty good at clarinet back in the day. Of course he was almost completely self-taught... we sure couldn't afford music lessons. I wonder if he still plays..."

So Trowa was musical as well as magical, was he? Heero restrained himself from remarking sourly that he bet Trowa _did_ still play, and had been practicing for ninety years and was now a virtuoso -- whereas the extent of Heero's musical inclinations was occasionally singing along with something when he was absolutely certain nobody could see or hear him.

He looked around, letting life come back into focus, and realized with a start what the time was. "Oh, Quatre's going to be here soon to watch the game," he said. "I'd better get dressed."

"Aw, you're going to change out of those sexy pajama pants?" Duo complained.

Feeling his face go abruptly hot, Heero glanced down at his cotton pants and their repeating pattern of Optimus Prime's face. "Yes," he said, and was pleased at how levelly he managed it.

"Well, do I at least get to watch?"

If Duo's tone hadn't been so clearly joking, Heero did not doubt that his own face would have gone even more red than it probably already was. In any case, he took care not to let Duo see it as he picked him up. "No," he said in the same level tone.

Duo made an exaggerated sound of disappointment as Heero carried him back into the living room and replaced him on his end table. A moment later, before Heero had even reached his bedroom door again, the sound of the TV coming back on floated down the hall. And Heero went to change contemplating how frustrating words could sometimes be that otherwise might have been exactly what you wanted to hear.


	77. Plastic Part 27

  


So he liked Heero.

Duo had unmuted the television, it was true, but he wasn't paying it any attention. His view of the hallway was mostly blocked, but he thought what he was doing could still accurately be called 'looking after Heero.' And if he'd had the luxury of a facial expression, it would have been pensive indeed.

The last time he'd been even remotely romantically interested in anyone had been eighty-seven years ago. Oh, sure, he'd always been able to recognize attractiveness when he encountered it, and there _had_ been that whole coming-out thing in the 60's... but it had all been almost more clinical than anything else -- observations that led nowhere. And he'd never really thought about why he'd spent so long without anyone specifically catching his eye. But he was thinking about it now. Why exactly had this been the case? Surely over the course of nearly nine decades he should have met _someone_ to interest him...

Admittedly he'd spend a good percentage of that time with children, but he'd gotten to know his fair share of adults as well. Also, he was a doll, but so what? His mind was the same, wasn't it? Or had Trowa been right, all those years ago -- was Duo really so petty and superficial that he couldn't even fathom liking someone without the possibility of attendant physicality?

And, more importantly perhaps than why it had been like this for so long, what had changed now? Because _something_ had. Was it Duo? Was something inside him maturing to allow a new interest after so long without any? Or was Heero just that overwhelmingly attractive? Perhaps it was more that Duo had some hope of regaining his humanity sometime soon, and so was allowing himself to notice humans in that light again.

He laughed helplessly at himself. This was all just another observation that led nowhere, since Heero was still clearly uninterested. Which hadn't been a problem when Duo was idly reflecting that he _might_ at some point start thinking of Heero as more than a friend, but could prove somewhat annoying now that he actually had.

Little time was available for him to dwell on this (which was probably for the best), as a knock sounded on the door and Heero reappeared, fully dressed, to let Quatre in. Evidently it was Heero's turn to provide snacks again, for Quatre was empty-handed. Duo was getting the hang of these sports-oriented get-togethers.

That Duo had gone over a century without ever learning the joys of basketball seemed incredible. It was always interesting (and, to be frank, somewhat annoying) just how many things he'd never seen or done. Immortals were supposed to be knowledgeable and experienced, weren't they? In the vampire movies, they always spoke a dozen languages and had contacts everywhere and loads of money. Duo spoke only English, could have counted his friends on one hand if his fingers separated, and didn't even have any way to _make_ money.

But he did like basketball. Movie immortals never did that. And they didn't know what they were missing.

He liked Heero, too. This fact was rapidly becoming inescapable. The way Heero shook his fist and half-growled out commendations at the team he was supporting, a much less obtrusive celebration than Quatre's cheers or the victory dances Duo would undoubtedly have done if he'd been capable, had an intense, subtle sort of happiness behind it that Duo enjoyed seeing almost as much as the skillful plays that inspired it.

Perhaps as a direct result of this, Duo was struck with the thought that _playing_ basketball with Heero might be even more fun than watching basketball with Heero. Of course, the idea of playing _anything_ was pleasant, for obvious reasons... but basketball in particular, especially with Heero, seemed like fun. He couldn't be sure, of course -- it had still been a relatively new sport back when Duo might have had the option to play it, and limited mostly to venues he didn't frequent -- and besides that was a pipe dream at this point anyway, but even so he had to express his curiosity on the subject.

During the next commercial break, therefore, he asked, "So do you guys ever _play_ this game?"

"Sometimes," Quatre replied, while at the same moment Heero said, "Every once in a while." And they exchanged a look, the spontaneity and mutuality of which was comical even if the expression itself was not.

"What?" wondered Duo, amused.

"Two-on-two is more fun than one-on-one," Quatre explained with a smile, "but we have a hard time persuading our friends -- the friends we play stuff with -- to play basketball. They're fine with tennis--"

"As long as they can use racquets that cost at least $300," Heero put in.

"--but they don't think much of basketball. I think they find it a little..." Quatre trailed off as if unsure of the word he wanted.

"Ghetto," Heero supplied.

Duo laughed, but could question no further as the commercials were over. Once a new set arrived, however, he pursued the subject. "So these snobby friends of yours who won't play basketball... they wouldn't happen to be the same ones who are always playing matchmaker at you guys?"

Quatre threw him a surprised look. "Yes, they are." And he glanced at Heero as if to ask, _"What have you been telling him?"_

Pleased to have put these pieces together, Duo sat back (figuratively speaking) to enjoy the rest of the game.

Thereafter, Quatre announced his intention to check that Trowa had eaten something today before he went home, much to Duo's satisfaction. It was silly to worry about not having seen his friend since Thursday when he hadn't seen him for almost ninety years and Trowa had been just fine, but that didn't make Duo any less pleased that Quatre was going to check on him.

"And I need to do my laundry," Heero said as Quatre disappeared into Trowa's house.

"Ooh, can I come with?" Duo requested.

Heero gave him a very skeptical look and said, "Why?"

"Just to spend more time in your scintillating presence," Duo replied in a tone that indicated this should have been obvious.

"I don't think you pronounce the 'c' in 'scintillating,'" Heero said.

"Yeah, maybe not," Duo allowed. "So can I come with you?"

Heero's face took on a pensive expression that Duo knew very well. It was the look that said he was pondering the logistics of carrying a talking doll to wherever it was he did laundry -- never very promising. What, then, was Duo's pleasure when Heero suddenly grinned and said, "Why not? You can sit in the laundry basket."

"I get to sit in the laauundry basket, I get to sit in the laauundry basket," Duo sang cheerfully as Heero went to fetch what he needed. He had a feeling this was going to be a good weekend.


	78. Plastic Part 28

  


Quatre awoke on Monday morning at about his usual time, and for a good ten seconds was somewhat distressed and disoriented because his alarm hadn't sounded. Then he remembered the last-minute plans for a week off, and relaxed. Lying in bed and staring at the ceiling, he thought for a while about what he meant to do today, then finally got up with a smile.

Although the purpose of these days off wasn't to waste a lot of time doing nothing, Quatre had no objection to adopting a leisurely pace in what he did need to get done. This included jogging, some tidying up at home, his laundry, playing with the dogs for a little while, and, eventually, a trip to a grocery store. But he was anything but leisurely when, late in the morning (EST), he marched into Trowa's house with his grocery bags and an expression of determination.

"Who's there?" called Trowa from the study as usual, but Quatre did not enter that room this time. Instead, he identified himself and went straight into the kitchen.

At the store, he'd concentrated on finding things that wouldn't go bad quickly -- crackers and canned food and microwaveable frozen stuff -- and was pretty pleased with his results. They certainly made Trowa's almost completely barren cupboards and freezer look a little less forlorn.

"What are you doing?" Trowa had emerged so quietly that Quatre hadn't noticed he was in the room until this moment. Quatre turned, a little startled, to find Trowa staring blankly at where he was trying to decide on a good place to put microwave popcorn.

"I brought you food," Quatre answered.

"Yes... Why?"

Quatre had come prepared for this question. The argument that Trowa would feel better and work better if he ate regularly had thus far been entirely ineffectual, so Quatre had specifically planned on approaching this from another angle. "Do you know," he said conversationally, "what Duo said yesterday when I told him how often you don't eat?"

He was beginning to recognize the tiny signs of discontent Trowa gave on occasion, and now saw clearly the very slight drawing-together of brows at his question. "He complained about not being able to eat," Trowa guessed dully.

"Well, yes," Quatre conceded. "But he also said that somebody needs to come over here and force you to start eating on a daily basis. Obviously he can't do it," he added with a bright smile, "so here I am."

Trowa stared at him for a long moment, and finally said, "Fine. What's for lunch?"

"Um..." Quatre reopened the freezer and pulled out the first box to hand. "Looks like... shrimp scampi."

"Fine," said Trowa again, his entire demeanor now subtly, indefinably defeated. Then he added, "But you'll have to join me. You cannot stand there and watch me eat again."

"OK," Quatre said happily, and opened the cold box in his hand.

The wisdom of this particular purchase was confirmed in the ease of preparation, though the flavor had yet to be ascertained. Once Quatre had figured out the buttons on the excessively dated microwave, he leaned against the counter and again looked at Trowa, who hadn't left his place at the edge of the kitchen. "So how's your progress?" he asked. "Any new ideas for Duo?"

Trowa turned abruptly away and moved toward the table. "No," he said shortly.

After a few moments of contemplation during which the microwave was the only sound, Quatre said, "So tell me about curses. What _is_ a curse, exactly?"

"A curse," Trowa answered slowly, flatly, "is a malicious spell that causes a set of circumstances to take effect and can only be reversed when another set of conditions is met. Cursing is considered a branch of command magic."

"You sound like a textbook," said Quatre with a smile.

Trowa made a faint, sardonic sound. "I've had quite some time to think about the nature of magic, especially curses, and organize my thoughts on the subject." He paused, then went on more quietly, "I've toyed with the idea of writing a book... but I haven't felt motivated to do so."

"We know what you'll be working on once you've cured Duo, then!" said Quatre cheerfully.

Trowa was silent.

"So there's an entire _branch_ of magic dedicated to curses?" Quatre was determined to keep this conversation going.

"There are five branches of magic. Cursing is a subcategory of one of them."

"'Subcategory,'" Quatre murmured as he began pulling out the dishes they would need. "That makes it sound so organized." And he knew so little about magic that any question he could think to ask on the subject was essentially a shot in the dark. That didn't matter much, though. "So are there... specialists in these subcategories? Experts at cursing who'll curse someone for you if you pay them?"

"Yes. They're not very nice people."

Quatre laughed. "Really?"

"Not just because they're willing to curse others for money," Trowa went on seriously. "A curse affects both the victim and the caster. A skilled curse-caster can bend this effect so that their share in the curse is something they don't mind, something that doesn't inhibit them... but even if they manage that, repeatedly having a share in any curse leaves a mark eventually."

Under cover of bringing dishes to the table, Quatre stared surreptitiously at Trowa. The unhealthily pale skin, the strange eyes, the overall sickly glow... were these parts of Duo's curse, as Quatre had vaguely assumed prior to this, or did Trowa's knowledge of the nature of curses come from more extensive experience than just Duo? It would make sense, he thought, for Trowa to have experimented with curses over the years in order to be better prepared for meeting with Duo again... but what a miserable thought. Quatre wasn't entirely certain he would blame him, but also wasn't entirely ready to know for certain.

So instead he asked, "So what is it about Duo's curse that's giving you trouble?"

Trowa sighed faintly. "Someone who deliberately casts a curse has a limited control over and understanding of what is required for the curse to be broken. But this wasn't meant to _be_ a curse; it was the artifact that twisted my spell into one. I have no idea what needs to happen for Duo to be human again."

"And your divinations haven't answered the question," Quatre finished for him, "and your research hasn't given you any answers either." He'd finished spooning shrimp and sauce onto two plates, and was now bringing these back to the table.

Trowa nodded in response to Quatre's words, and turned his eyes to the food in front of him. "Thank you," he murmured.

Quatre made a noise of acknowledgment, and sat down nearby -- not _too_ near, but not at the opposite end of the table, either. And it soon became evident that, as far as microwaveable frozen food went, he'd made a good choice on this. He noticed after not long, however, that Trowa was staring down at his plate without moving. Bracing himself for another debate, Quatre asked, "What's wrong?"

Trowa looked up, then over at the kitchen. "Did you buy all of this?"

"Yes," replied Quatre, raising his brows slightly and wondering what Trowa thought the alternative was.

"How much did you spend? I'll pay you back for it."

Quatre shook his head. "Don't worry about it."

Trowa set down the fork he'd picked up but hadn't yet used. "I am perfectly capable of doing my own shopping."

Matching Trowa's flat, steely tone, but laying a sheen of cheerfulness over the top, Quatre replied, "Of course you are. But since you _don't_..."

Trowa stared at him hard for a moment, and Quatre got the feeling he had other arguments he would have produced if he felt like continuing to argue at all. Instead he simply said, "Half, then. I'll pay you half."

After a moment's hesitation, Quatre said, "OK. It was about sixty dollars."

Trowa nodded, then finally began eating.

After several silent moments Quatre asked thoughtfully, "Where do you get money, anyway? You don't seem to have a job..."

"No." At least Trowa appeared to be enjoying his lunch, whatever he might say. "Eighty-seven years of investment and interest." He went on in a 'before you ask' sort of tone, "According to official records, I am Trowa Barton the third and was born in 1970."

"You're your own grandpa, huh?" Quatre grinned. But as the reference seemed to go right over Trowa's head, he added, "Well, you certainly look good for someone who was forty at last count."

To his surprise, Trowa actually smiled. It was faint and sardonic, yes, but it made Quatre's heart leap. "And a hundred and eleven at a more accurate count," he said, and bit into one of his shrimps.

Quatre left Trowa's house later feeling that this endeavor had gone very well. Admittedly it was a little difficult to tell, but Trowa had _seemed_ to be in a better mood after eating than before. And Quatre was obviously going to have to come back every day this week and make sure Trowa ate again in order to get him into the habit, but it wasn't exactly a task he minded. Indeed, the memory of that little smile, brief and ambivalent though it had been, would undoubtedly have bolstered him through any number of much less palatable undertakings.


	79. Plastic Part 29

  


"I really don't know how you stand this," Heero remarked conversationally. "_Some_ TV is fine, but this is insane." They'd essentially spent the whole of Monday in front of the television, and Heero didn't think he could handle a repetition on Tuesday; he wondered how Duo could.

"Oh, I have a special power," replied Duo mysteriously, "which allows me to watch TV for days on end without doing anything else."

Heero looked over at him, curious.

Duo explained. "It's called 'having no other choice.'"

Heero winced. There were just so many ways being a doll must be miserable; it didn't quite seem fair that even Duo's primary source of entertainment formed one of them. _Remind me never to piss Trowa off_, was Heero's immediate reaction to this thought, but he forebore from saying it aloud. Duo had been complaining lately that Trowa hadn't come to see him for so long, and Heero didn't feel like bringing the subject up if it wasn't already on Duo's mind.

Instead, he stood abruptly and said, "No. We're going to find something else to do."

"'Something else to do?'" Duo echoed in an eyebrow-waggling sort of tone.

Firmly, Heero took the remote control from where it lay next to Duo on the end table, and turned the TV off. "Yes," he said. "Anything but more TV."

"'_Anything?_'" said Duo in that same suggestive tone.

Heero gave a monosyllabic laugh and rolled his eyes. He was already pondering what kinds of pastimes besides television-watching were available to someone that couldn't hold, eat, or drink anything, couldn't stand under his own power, whose knees and elbows didn't bend, and who would be considered more than a little bit anomalous to the world in general. (He couldn't deny that a little voice in the back of his head added, 'and whose entire groin is a solid piece with no movable parts,' but he did brush the thought away as entirely unhelpful.) He hadn't come up with anything yet when his reflections were interrupted by the ringing of his phone.

"I don't think I'll ever get used to cell phones," Duo remarked as Heero dug into his pocket.

It was one of his parents calling. Heero took a deep breath, bracing himself mentally, before picking up.

His mother always greeted him, "Heero?" in a questioning tone, as if someone else might be answering his phone.

"Yes," he replied. "Hello. How are you?"

"We are very well," said his mother with her usual businesslike, almost brusque cheerfulness and faint trace of disapprobation. "Relena and Colin are coming over for dinner on Sunday, if you'd like to come too."

Heero counted the days since he'd had dinner with his family, and saw very plainly that he could not turn down this particular invitation. If only they'd planned this for Monday, so he could plead Final Four... Stifling a sigh, he said, "Yeah, that would be great. Six thirty?" Because no dinner at the Yuy household had ever happened at any other time.

His mother confirmed this, then proved that, as usual, she didn't have much else to say besides what she'd specifically called for. She wasn't very good at chatting on the phone, a trait Heero had inherited from her -- but at least _he_ didn't _try_. She asked what he'd been up to lately without really wanting to hear the answer, which was good, since he didn't really want to give the answer.

He could just imagine telling his mother, _"Well, I found a talking Ken doll in the gutter and have since developed a crush on him, but he's already got a 100-year-old boyfriend."_ She might, at least, be glad to hear that Quatre was chasing someone else; she was just sure that, any day now, Heero was going to announce he'd started sleeping with his best friend.

They exchanged a few more somewhat stiff comments, and finally hung up, with the reiterated promise of a meeting on Sunday that Heero wasn't particularly looking forward to. A couple of months ago he wouldn't have minded, but at the moment there were few places more awkward and uncomfortable to be on a Sunday evening than at his parents' house with his sister and her fiance.

"I didn't know you were bilingual!" said Duo, sounding impressed, as Heero put his phone away.

"Oh. Yeah." Heero shrugged slightly. His family tended to speak Japanese among themselves, which included phone conversations; Heero didn't really think much about it.

"Well," Duo went on matter-of-factly, "that is extremely sexy, and I am totally jealous."

Heero laughed briefly. "Didn't you say you spoke some kind of Spanish, though?"

"I said I spoke maybe ten words of _Wade_ Spanish, which doesn't even start to count."

Looking down thoughtfully at the doll, Heero said, "You keep mentioning this 'Wade.'"

"That was what they called the neighborhood Trowa and I lived in growing up." Duo's plastic head was swiveled upward to return Heero's gaze, and his eyes blinked with unnerving regularity, like an animation in an old video game or something. "See, the city was right up against this shallow river, and there was this big old sort of shantytown on the other side... a bunch of poor people lived there, mostly non-white, the kinds of people that got kicked around most back then."

"Has that changed?" asked Heero with light dryness.

"It was worse back then," promised Duo somewhat flatly. "Anyway, it was quicker for them to wade the river than walk a couple of miles to a bridge to get into the city, so they got called 'Waders' and the part of town where most of them worked -- hell, it was practically the only part of the city a lot of them _could_ get work -- but that part next to the river got called 'the Wade.' I mean, this all started before I was born; I always knew it as the Wade."

"And what was it like?" Heero asked curiously.

In response to this question, Duo laughed. "You know, there's this thing I see happen on TV," he began in an amused, pensive tone, "and you probably know about it too, if TV hasn't been lying to me like it sometimes does."

"Yes?" Heero prompted, returning to his seat on the couch and facing Duo.

"Someone'll find out that someone else speaks another language -- say, Spanish -- and they'll say, 'Oh, oh, say something in Spanish for me!' And the other person suddenly has no idea what to say."

Now Heero laughed too. "OK, yes, I do know about that." He was certain, however, that Duo, if he found himself in that situation and did happen to speak Spanish, would be one of those smartasses that just translated the words 'something in Spanish' into Spanish.

"Because you know about a billion words in that language, right?" Duo said. "And how are you supposed to decide just at a moment's notice which ones will represent the language and how it sounds to someone who doesn't speak it?"

"Are you _sure_ you haven't experienced this personally?" Heero asked, eyebrows raised.

"Well, I think that's about what it feels like when you ask me what the Wade was like." Duo said this in some triumph, as if he'd just made an irrefutable point in an intense debate.

"Oh," said Heero, understanding, and laughed a little again.

"I mean, I could tell you a million things about life there, but there's no quick and easy way to tell you 'what the Wade was like.' What would _you_ say if I asked you what _this_ city was like?"

"All right, I see your point," Heero conceded. For, while there _were_ a lot of concise answers he could have given to the proposed question, none of them would _really_ paint a reliable picture of the city in general. "How about this, then: do the movies get it right? I guess that's more about era than location," he admitted immediately, "but still..."

"Well, sometimes..." Duo went on in a 'scratching his head' sort of tone. "As right as anyone can get it when they're trying to cram all the social changes and attitudes and stuff of an entire decade into an hour and a half. They always try to capture 'the spirit of the times' in movies, but that's something you can only do after the fact, I guess. I mean, I don't think _I_ ever did anything that embodied the progressive and inventive spirit of the 1910's, and I definitely never looked around and _thought_ about it. But sometimes the movies do get sets that look pretty good."

Again Heero nodded his understanding, and couldn't help thinking about how movies a hundred years from now would portray _this_ decade; what 'spirit' might they attempt to capture? "OK," he said. "Then tell me one of the million things you could tell me about life in the Wade."

And as Duo obeyed, leading them into a fascinating, lively, and long-lived conversation, Heero wondered why he'd ever been under the impression that they lacked interesting things to do.


	80. Plastic Part 30

Evidently Trowa was getting used to this routine Quatre was imposing on him, for, when Quatre came over for lunch on Wednesday, he found Trowa closing the book he'd been reading as if he'd been specifically waiting for a reason to do so. Actually, that wasn't at all uncommon; Trowa seemed to be more than pleased at any excuse to set aside his research. Given how many hours a day Trowa was spending buried in books or on the internet, and to no avail, Quatre found this completely understandable.

They had some kind of breakfast-like affair involving sausage and potatoes -- not the best of the frozen meals with which Quatre had stocked Trowa's freezer -- and their conversation somehow found its way to hiking and the local opportunities therefor. Local to Quatre, that is, but since he was the one that did most of the talking this was not inappropriate. Trowa always seemed to listen somewhat grudgingly to what Quatre had to say, as if he'd rather be doing or thinking something else but couldn't help being interested. This simultaneously amused and bothered Quatre, but, as he wasn't really sure what to do about it, he simply continued as he had done.

After lunch, Trowa returned to his study and, as far as Quatre could tell, the same book he'd been perusing before, but instead of reading it he only sat still in his horrible armchair and stared at the nearby table. He had that pensive little half frown on his face again, and Quatre decided to make him some tea before he left him to his work.

Almost the only food-like item present in Trowa's kitchen before Quatre had forced half a grocery store on him had been a package of cinnamon orange tea. Having observed this, Quatre had bought him some more, but had also picked up a couple other flavors he thought Trowa might like. Of course someone that generally didn't eat or drink anything, and that quite possibly had an entire century's worth of tea experimentation under his belt, could probably be trusted to know of his one culinary indulgence what flavors he did and didn't like without help from anyone else... but Quatre speculated -- it was just a feeling, really, but an instinct he trusted -- that it was the caffeine Trowa really sought, and the taste was irrelevant.

Wild mint seemed a good choice for today, so Quatre got a cup of that ready and returned with it to the study. There he found Trowa continuing to stare at nothing, the book evidently untouched in his lap, a slight frown still on his otherwise unreadable face. The magician did not even seem to notice when Quatre set the teacup in its neat little saucer down at the other end of the table.

_Was_ Trowa staring at nothing, though? As Quatre's eyes left the object he'd brought into the room and roved over the others on the cluttered table, he began to rethink this assessment. Trowa's gaze seemed to be directed at an old, tarnished silver candlestick devoid of a candle that stood among the books and papers and other items. It occurred to Quatre that it had always been there, but he had never really taken notice of it before; and simultaneously that, even in a house full of mismatched articles from a variety of eras, this particular piece looked out of place.

He leaned closer to examine it. It was obviously very old, much too old to be any relic of the early twentieth century, or even -- though he was far from an expert on the subject -- of the late nineteenth. And then, with a faint, quick intake of surprised breath, he noticed the pattern of tiny moons, progressing from the merest sliver to round and full, carved delicately into the sides of the square base.

"Is that..." he began, and found his voice coming out in a murmur, almost a whisper, as if he were asking Trowa to divulge some serious secret.

For a long moment Trowa did not move or speak, as if he hadn't heard Quatre's beginning of a question and had, in fact, forgotten he was there. But finally with a deep breath he tore his eyes from the candlestick and turned them on Quatre. He wasn't wearing his contacts today, and Quatre had already noticed that the moon must be starting to wane at the moment. Now the moons in Trowa's face regarded him emotionlessly for a moment before returning to their previous object of scrutiny.

"Yes," Trowa said.

Quatre also turned back to peer intently at the artifact. "It's a... candlestick..." he said at last.

"Yes," Trowa said again.

"I'd expected it to be... something..." Quatre shrugged and laughed faintly. "Something _more_, I guess. Something that seemed more magical."

"Any object can become an artifact," Trowa reminded him, "if enough magic is performed around it."

Quatre nodded, then murmured, "So it was Trowa in the study with the candlestick."

Here was another reference that seemed to go right over Trowa's head. "It was created by a group of moon-worshiping magicians around 1760 in France," he explained seriously. "It's been difficult to find records of its history, but, as far as I can gather, it was created by accident -- most artifacts are -- when the group used to cast spells at an altar where this and another, matching candlestick stood."

"So there are two of them."

"I don't believe so. Apparently both became magical artifacts, but when the group noticed how much magic the candlesticks were absorbing, they began deliberately channeling their own power into one of them; so it became extremely powerful, while the other remained a standard artifact. Well, perhaps a little more powerful than a standard artifact, but nothing in comparison to this one." Trowa gestured at the candlestick on the table, from which Quatre's eyes had wandered to his companion's much more interesting face.

"Why did they put their power into it?" Quatre wondered, looking back at the candlestick as seemed to be indicated by Trowa's movement. "I can see where such a powerful artifact would be useful, but did they know that's what would happen?"

Trowa surprised Quatre by snorting in derision. "I doubt it. I can't be sure, but the feeling I get is that they did it just to see what would happen. Just for fun."

"Really?" wondered Quatre, amused. "Not to... appease the moon spirit... or something?"

"The changing nature of this group is interesting to watch in retrospect. I would let you see the records, but you wouldn't be able to read them."

"I'm fairly good with French, actually," Quatre informed him.

For the second time that week, Trowa smiled, just a little, and again Quatre's heart-rate seemed instantly to increase at the sight. "_I'm_ not," he said simply. "I can't even pronounce the name this group called themselves. But one of the conveniences of magical skill is the ability to understand the magical language, which is universal to everyone who also has magical skill." Now he gestured to the book in his lap, across whose pages were marked the indistinct and unfamiliar characters Quatre had noticed a few times before in books here. "Almost all of the records of note are written in the magical language."

"Ohh," Quatre said, a little disappointed. "Well, what do they say that's so interesting?" He was pleased at getting Trowa to talk to so much, but also had to admit that the subject was not without interest in its own right.

"The group was not a serious undertaking at the beginning," answered Trowa sardonically. "They were all or almost all magicians, yes, but they were not people who used magic _for_ anything. They were aristocrats: rich, idle people who thought it would add some spice to their pointless lives to start a secret society and pretend to worship the moon in made-up ceremonies. I gather that it was mostly an excuse to show off useless magic and have drunken orgies."

This startled a laugh out of Quatre, and inside he couldn't help reflecting that, while he'd certainly never expected it, hearing the word 'orgies' from Trowa's pale lips was every bit as pleasant as he would have thought it might be if he'd ever thought about it at all.

"But there were a few who took it seriously," Trowa went on, unaware of the fascinating train of thought onto which he'd put Quatre for a few moments. "The second generation of members, you might call them -- people who actually felt a connection to the moon which they wanted to enhance. They were the ones who wrote all the records, and they were the ones who transformed the group into a real cult after it had been nothing more than an exclusive club for several years. They continued pouring their energies into the artifact, and using it in rituals related to the moon and its cycles, which eventually gave it an affinity with the moon."

"What happened to the cult?" Quatre asked.

Trowa shook his head. "I don't know. I haven't been able to find any records later than 1785. As I understand," he added a little wryly, "that was a bad time to be an aristocrat in France. I'm lucky to have found any records at all."

"How long have you been researching this?"

After a moment's thought Trowa answered, "Sixty-two... no, sixty-three years. I thought if I could find something that would tell me more about the artifact, I might learn something that would help break the curse." He sighed faintly, and said nothing more, though the lament was clear: he _had_ learned more, and it had been fascinating research, but so far it hadn't helped. He reached out a pale, slender hand to the candlestick and ran one long finger up and down its tarnished side.

Quatre watched without blinking. Trowa had a sort of stark, lean sexiness about him that was only augmented by his strangeness and sadness, and which Quatre could really do without noticing at moments like this. He was afraid he'd caught his breath just a little, too, as he watched Trowa's cold, almost caressing movement toward the artifact, for Trowa looked over at him again abruptly.

Blushing as if Trowa were able to read his thoughts -- Quatre _assumed_ Trowa couldn't read his thoughts, anyway -- he said quickly, "Well, I made you some tea," realizing even as he said it that it probably wouldn't be hot anymore... not that Trowa ever seemed to care... "Maybe today will be the lucky day when you find your answers."

Trowa returned to staring at the candlestick beneath his fingertips as he murmured, "How many times I've thought that..." The hopelessness in his tone was almost overwhelming.

Quatre wanted very much to hug him, but still didn't quite dare. Instead he smiled as brightly as he could and said bolsteringly, "Well, it has to happen sometime -- why not today?"

With a faint sound of doubt that was almost disdainful, Trowa turned his eyes downward to the book in his lap once again, and Quatre reluctantly deemed it time to leave. Without a word of goodbye, which was becoming customary at the ends of these visits, he moved toward the door. A look back before leaving the room showed him that Trowa's gaze had already strayed from the book and was once more riveted on the artifact on the table, staring blankly into the past.


	81. Plastic Part 31

"If only my thumbs moved," Duo complained, "we could play cards or something. I wouldn't even need the rest of my fingers to separate even, if I just had _one_ opposable digit."

Heero laughed sympathetically. They'd been discussing things to do besides watching television, and, while discussion itself sufficed for the moment, this particular topic had already been so thoroughly canvassed as never to last long anymore.

"Why did you take a week off, again?" asked Duo next, partly because it seemed natural in the current conversation and partly because he liked hearing Heero's answer.

"Because all this magic stuff is so interesting it was distracting us at work," Heero replied as expected. "We hoped things might be worked out by the end of the week, or at least we'd be used to it, and we could go back to work without all the distraction."

"Mmmm," said Duo in a tone of revelry, "I'm a _distraction_."

Heero gave another of his cute monosyllabic laughs. "Yes, you are," he agreed. "But you're not distracting _enough_ and Duo, I swear to god if you turn that TV on again while I'm in the room, I will--"

"Take me to Goodwill?" Duo broke in, stealing all the thunder from Heero's threat.

"Yes," Heero agreed.

"Can it be a date?" Duo wondered.

Heero rolled his eyes.

"Well, what do normal guys do when they're bored?" Duo asked.

"All sorts of things," Heero answered in some exasperation, "most of which you can't do."

"'All sorts of things,' huh?" Duo echoed, but by now he'd approached this type of statement from this particular angle so many times that the suggestive tone was starting to sound a bit stale. "Well, how about..." But he trailed off. The truth was that he really _didn't_ know much about what normal guys did when they were bored. He knew what _children_ did when they were bored, but apart from the fact that he couldn't do most of that either, he didn't think Heero would be terribly interested in any pretending games of that sort.

They'd spent the first half of Heero's week off talking, trawling YouTube for music videos and generally interesting stuff, talking, and, yes, watching a lot of TV; apparently Heero had reached his breaking point when it came to the latter, and was absolutely determined to find something else to do. Duo was honestly touched that Heero was so bent on doing things _with him_, and didn't mind at all that Heero's insistence was making him miss all his favorite shows.

"You know what we _could_ do..." Heero said eventually into the pensive silence.

Based on Heero's already somewhat hesitant tone, Duo decided not to respond to this with a suggestive remark that would have been a repeat of something he'd said earlier anyway, and just prompted, "Yeah?"

"If you wanted," Heero went on, still slowly and a little warily, as if it was something strange or unpleasant he was about to suggest, "I could read a book aloud to you."

Duo's first thought was that it was absolutely adorable that Heero was so shy about such a thing. His second thought was that he had no idea why it should be so adorable, nor why Heero should be so shy about it in the first place. His third thought was that he would very much _like_ to know, and would definitely have to keep his eyes open. And his fourth thought was that he'd better answer before Heero decided from his silence that it had been a bad idea and retracted the suggestion.

"That _is_ a thought," he said, in appropriate thoughtfulness. "Do you have any good books, though?"

With a skeptical look as if to ask, _"Would I have suggested it if I didn't?"_ Heero rose from where he'd been sitting, as he had been quite a lot these last few days, on the couch. His inexplicable and wholly welcome determination to do things with Duo during his week off had led him to start carrying Duo around with him much of the time, so it was no surprise when he picked Duo up now before he headed down the hall.

But when they entered the room where the computer and bookshelf and spare bed lived, Heero stopped for a moment in the doorway, as if pausing in thought, then reached around behind him with the hand holding Duo so that the doll was facing the opposite direction Heero was and held against the small of his back.

"Is this like making me sit in the corner?" Duo wondered as Heero moved into the room. Heero was clearly perusing the bookshelf, but Duo was now looking at the computer desk and the opposite wall.

"It's more like not letting you see what kind of awful taste in books I had when I was younger," Heero replied evenly.

"What?!" Duo yelped. "Now you _have_ to let me see!"

"No, I don't."

"Did you read the Babysitters Club, or what?" Duo was flailing his stiff limbs in impotent rebellion. "Come on, put me back around there!"

"No," Heero said, and there was some laughter in his voice.

"You know, I could have seen them any time yesterday when we were looking at stuff on the computer," Duo pointed out. "How do you know I don't already know everything you've got up there?"

"Because you were facing the computer, and _I notice_ when you turn your head all the way around," Heero answered logically and with a slight shudder.

Duo began spinning his head around and around and around.

"Stop that," Heero commanded; he could undoubtedly tell what Duo was doing by the feel of the doll's braid rhythmically running counterclockwise over his hand.

"Let me see your books!" Duo replied.

"No!"

"I am going to make it my life's work to find out what you have on your bookshelf, Heero Yuy," Duo declared, finally ceasing his spinning. "You just wait."

Heero chuckled triumphantly. "All right," he said. Then he added, "How about the Oz series? Have you ever read those?"

"Aren't those, like, kids' books?"

"Um, yes," Heero admitted, sounding a little embarrassed. "That's mostly what I have."

"What _else_ do you have?"

"Well, there's also the-- wait, are you asking because you don't like the idea of the Oz series, or are you just being sneaky?"

"_You just wait_," Duo repeated, then laughed evilly. When he was finished with that he said, "But I have no objection to the Oz series. I've seen the movie, of course, and some other version that was a horrible, horrible cartoon with these hilarious songs in it..."

"OK," said Heero, and a moment later they were returning to the living room. Heero replaced Duo on the end table, and himself on the couch, and now Duo could see The Wonderful Wizard of Oz in his hand. Heero too looked at it, at the very ugly illustration on its old paper cover, and smiled slightly. "I used to love these books, but I haven't read them for years. I'm still pretty sure they're not nearly as bad as any of the other series I used to read, though."

"Other series such as?" Duo prompted.

Heero laughed, and made a great show of settling more comfortably into the couch cushions and opening the book. "'Chapter one,'" he read: "'The Cyclone.'"

  
[Art by Link Worshiper](http://link_worshiper.livejournal.com/)


	82. Plastic Part 32

  


Trowa was a little surprised, on Friday evening, to see Quatre in his house again despite the fact that he'd been there earlier for lunch. He supposed this shouldn't have been much of a shock -- Quatre was proving excessively tenacious -- but he somehow thought he'd met his quota for the day. Or was Quatre going to start insisting Trowa eat _dinner_, too? Surely not. 

He'd essentially given up trying to understand Quatre, who, while clearly a follower like the rest of them, didn't quite behave like the rest of them. He _still_ hadn't ever asked for anything, and yet he fussed; he interrupted and intruded, and yet wasn't necessarily unpleasant to have around. It didn't make sense, and Trowa had other things to think about. 

And now Quatre was walking the room slowly, coming to stand beside the table in front of Trowa, with arms crossed and a frown on his face. "I had a feeling..." was the first thing he said. 

From his chair, Trowa looked up at the other man in vague curiosity. 

"I've been watching you all week," Quatre said, in a tone that suggested the delivery of bad news, "and..." His frown deepened. "You aren't really working on anything, are you?" 

Startled, Trowa blinked, and at first had nothing to say. It was a blow, and probably more than it should have been coming from a follower. On top of everything else, on top of the guilt and the sorrow and the hopelessness, now Quatre had noticed... 

"I've seen you really working a couple of times," Quatre went on, and by now he sounded almost apologetic, "but most of the time -- especially these last few days -- you just sit there staring into space." 

Trowa lifted his gaze the final few inches necessary to meet Quatre's, and found there a strange mixture of accusation and pity. This did nothing to help with the weight on Trowa's heart, which had only been increased by Quatre's words. Feeling his lips tighten, Trowa stood abruptly, letting the book that had been on his lap -- which he never _had_ really looked at today -- slide unheeded to the floor, pushed past Quatre, and left the room. 

Through the dining room windows he could see the failing light of evening. He noticed as well in the glass the reflection of Quatre immediately behind him. "It's none of your business," Trowa said preemptively. 

"It _is_ my business," Quatre replied at once, firmly. "I consider Duo a friend -- and you too, no matter how you feel about it. Neither one of you is going to have a decent life until this curse is broken, so I want to know why the only person who has any chance of breaking it seems to have given up." 

Trowa frowned. A friend? Quatre considered him a _friend_? Was _that_ why he expressed concern without making demands? Why he kept coming over here? Actually, it would explain all of Quatre's behavior fairly well; Trowa remembered that some people _did_ do things like that sometimes. 

It was certainly more than _he_ deserved. 

"Being my friend can be unhealthy," he said stonily, still staring out the window, tackling this secondary issue while he evaded the main one. "It's best avoided." 

"You haven't had any real friends since back then, have you?" Quatre guessed in a quiet, pitying tone. "Just those people who wanted magic from you." 

"You've seen what I did to my last friend," Trowa explained a bit harshly. 

"Trowa..." Quatre had taken another step forward and put his hand on Trowa's shoulder, causing the magician to go stiff. "That was an _accident_. It was a bad combination of circumstances. Duo's forgiven you for it." 

Although at least part of him didn't want to, Trowa shrugged Quatre's hand off. "That's because that's what Duo does." It came out almost in a hiss. "He gets angry, and then he gets over it. But there are some things that _shouldn't_ be forgiven that easily." 

"That's why you've stopped working, isn't it?" Quatre wondered next, in the same soft, sympathetic tone as before. "You can't forgive yourself for what you did to him, and it's driving you crazy. So instead of trying to solve the problem so you can move past it, you're just sitting around being miserable doing nobody any good." 

It was many years -- decades, perhaps -- since Trowa could remember being truly angry, but now the agitation he felt at this conversation was close enough that he thought it counted. He couldn't deny the truth of what Quatre had said, but he felt that the other man didn't -- _couldn't possibly_ \-- understand him. He whirled on him, fixing his cursed eyes on Quatre's face. "Do you have _any idea_," he demanded, "how it feels to know that you've destroyed the life of someone you love?" 

"No," said Quatre quietly, steadily. "But I _have_ done things I regretted, and--" 

"You haven't done _anything_ like this," Trowa interrupted harshly. "Something like this hangs over you forever, so you can never think right or feel like yourself again, so that every single moment of every day you're..." 

He trailed off, and not just because it was so strange to be putting into words how he felt, how he had silently felt for so many years, to someone else. He realized even as he said it that it was no longer entirely true. It _wasn't_ 'every single moment of every day' anymore. Because lately... somehow... with Quatre around... there _had_ been moments... 

But that didn't matter. The fact that he hadn't been _entirely_ miserable at certain points during the last couple of weeks didn't change anything. 

Realizing that Trowa wasn't going to continue, Quatre said, "I'm sorry. I can't claim I know exactly how you feel, but I see what you're saying. And normally I'd say that you need to get yourself straightened out before you can try to help someone else. But in this case, I think breaking the curse _is_ what will help you. Giving up or slowing down is the worst thing you can do." 

It was sound advice. Whatever his motivation, he should be focused entirely on breaking the curse. But this thought only made Trowa feel worse. He said nothing. 

Quatre's face hardened slightly. "Even if you can't do it for your own sake, at least think of Duo," he said flatly. "I assume you haven't come to see him because it's painful for you... but it's hurting him. He acts very casual about it, but he's obviously unhappy that he hasn't seen you all week." 

Trowa turned hastily back to the window, unwilling to let Quatre see his face crumple as it was now threatening to. The thought that he was prolonging Duo's suffering by his own weakness was the worst of it, and made the rest that much harder to bear. 

Finally, after several moments of silence, "I don't know where else to look," he said in the soft tone of absolute despair. "I don't know what else to do." 

Again Quatre put a hand on his shoulder, squeezing this time as if eager to give what comfort he could. "I'm sorry," he said. "I wish I could help you." 

And it occurred to Trowa that he didn't _have_ to understand Quatre to know that he wasn't like the followers -- that perhaps he wasn't like anyone Trowa had ever met. He genuinely cared about Trowa and Duo and their situation, and he honestly wished he could help... and at the same time wasn't afraid to risk Trowa's displeasure by confronting him with unpleasant truths Trowa needed to hear. That was something friends did, wasn't it? God, it had been so long. He'd been alone so long... it was no wonder he'd forgotten what it was like not to be... 

"Maybe you can," he found himself saying in a low, unaccountably level voice. "Will you stay here?" He thought there was a faint hissing breath behind him as he spoke the question, as if the latter had come as a shock to more than only himself. "Just... stay here with me while I work? I think it would help." 

Whether or not Quatre was surprised at the request, however, all he said, in a tone very much like Trowa's, was, "Of course."


	83. Plastic Part 33

  


Quatre had never in his life found himself so distracted from a basketball game, especially not at the beginning of April. He'd done a little better paying attention to today's earlier game, but after that he'd gone to force lunch on Trowa, and now his thoughts had so overtaken him that he noticed only about half of what was happening onscreen. 

He'd sat in Trowa's study yesterday for hours, doing almost nothing besides watching the magician work -- honest, genuine work, if Quatre was any judge -- joining in the occasional random brief conversation, and struggling with a mixture of emotions. 

The idea that Trowa found his presence helpful in any way was elating, to the point where Quatre had been hard pressed not to sit there grinning the entire time; but he felt guilty too. He hadn't recognized the depths of Trowa's unhappiness, despite their being so understandable as to be almost predictable; and surely he shouldn't be so damn happy about Trowa wanting him there when that stemmed simply from the fact that Trowa _had no friends_. 

He wasn't sure that Trowa had actually _accomplished_ anything yesterday, but he'd definitely been _working_ \-- first researching, then setting up another complicated divination ceremony -- and that alone felt like a triumph. That alone seemed to make the whole week off worth it, even if the original wish that Duo might be human again before the time was up remained unfulfilled. Just to know that Trowa's crisis of hope had been averted, at least for now, made everything worth it. 

Quatre had been reacting only sluggishly to everything in the game he was supposedly watching, and he was sure Heero had noticed. Uncertain whether he wanted to relate to Heero or Duo what had happened yesterday, Quatre took a deep breath and tried to pay better attention to the TV. So when, not long after, a failed layup was saved by two of their players at once moving in such close synchronization that it was almost impossible to tell which had actually made the dunk, Quatre was able to respond appropriately and in good time. 

He noticed when he'd finished cheering, however, that he wasn't the only one reacting oddly today. Duo's little voice, usually the most enthusiastic of the three of them, if not exactly the loudest, was even more excited than usual at the moment for some reason, and had transitioned from expressing great appreciation for what he'd just seen to shouting incoherently. It wasn't long before both Quatre and Heero were staring at him, and a moment after that Heero had jumped to his feet, evidently losing all track of the basketball game. 

"What is it?" Quatre asked, watching Duo flail his little plastic arms and swivel his head from side to side. Then, finally, he saw it too, and, like Heero, jumped from the couch. 

Heero had picked Duo up and was staring down at him in agitated wonder. The doll was still waving his arms wildly, not as if he was struggling but simply for the sake of the movement itself -- for, inexplicably, for the first time that Quatre had ever seen, his _elbows_ were _bending_. And though Duo was no longer shouting, he was still making noise: babbling almost as incomprehensibly as before, he was exclaiming nonstop about his elbows and how long it had been since he'd had any. Heero, meanwhile, kept interjecting incomplete congratulations and broken questions as to how it could possibly have happened. 

Abruptly it occurred to Quatre how utterly absurd this looked, and he laughed out loud. This seemed to break through the ongoing incoherence in front of him, and two heads -- one with stiff, messy dark brown hair, the other with a tiny chestnut braid -- turned toward him. 

"This is _wonderful_, Duo," Quatre said, smiling broadly. "I'm going to run over there and tell Trowa." 

Duo, who was still lifting both forearms over and over as if he couldn't get enough of the motion, stretched his plastic smile as wide as it would go as he looked at Quatre. "Thanks, man!" he said ecstatically. "I don't want you to have to miss more of the game, though." 

They all glanced almost reflexively back at the TV, which had gone to commercial while they weren't paying attention, and Quatre shook his head. "Trowa will want to know this good news right away." He started toward Trowa's door. "Besides, he'll know what it means better than we do, and it might help him!" 

Despite the purely idiomatic quality of the phrase 'run over there,' Quatre _was_ almost running as he came into Trowa's entryway. All he could think of was that this information would surely give Trowa hope, allow him to work more steadfastly, perhaps even make him happy, if just for a moment. He probably appeared a little wild to the magician as he burst into the study. 

In fact, he realized immediately, his desire to deliver a cheering report had been somewhat betrayed by his demeanor; for Trowa, observing his agitation, rose precipitously and came toward him, saying, "What's wrong?" 

Quatre reached out as they met halfway across the room, seizing Trowa's arm and giving it a little shake. "It's _good_ news," he said hastily. He let go of Trowa immediately, lest he be tempted further to test the shape of that wiry arm beneath its long buttoned sleeve and distract himself from the conversation. "Duo," he went on excitedly, "just bent his elbows. He says he's never been able to do that before as a doll, but now he can." He realized even as he voiced this that it sounded every bit as stupid as it had looked back in Heero's apartment; but there really was nothing to be done. 

He wouldn't have thought Trowa could possibly become any paler, and he would have been wrong; as Trowa's eyes widened slightly, his face seemed to blanch as if with shock. For a moment he was obviously unsure of what to do, looking as if he might push past Quatre at a run and simultaneously as if he wanted (or perhaps just needed) to return to his chair. Then his face took on a faint expression of concentration, his bright moon eyes seeming to glaze over a bit as if he were no longer seeing anything in front of him, and he said something. 

Quatre knew by now that these incomprehensible sounds were words in the magical language, and he wondered what Trowa was doing. He speculated that it was a divination to find out why this had happened, and considered this guess confirmed when Trowa focused again on the world around him and spoke, in almost a whisper, what sounded like an answer to a specific question on the subject: 

"Because he's been with Heero all week."


	84. Plastic Part 34

  


Divination was in some ways the simplest branch of magic, since at its most basic level it involved just asking a question. Not infrequently, however, it also proved the most frustrating of the three branches to which Trowa had access, because the universe was so picky about what information it would give out. The more general a question you asked -- _"How can I break Duo's curse?"_ for example -- the more general an answer you were likely to receive -- such as a meaningless vision of the moon. But to ask a more specific question, you had to have _some_ information already, which was why Trowa had, up until this moment, been consistently thwarted. 

Knowing both that Duo had been with Heero all week and that Duo was now able to bend his elbows, an answer that simply pointed out the correlation between the two facts was wonderfully easy to obtain. And that answer was the first step on the path to the greater answer -- a path that was an interconnected series of questions, answer leading to question leading to answer. Trowa could see it now before him, bright and clear, and he could feel the stinging of tears in his eyes. 

Quatre had brought him what real diviners -- which Trowa had never pretended to be -- called the 'gateway fact' or sometimes just the 'key:' the elusive piece of information that, once found, put you onto that path of productive questions. It took only five or six of the latter, after the initial "Why can Duo bend his elbows now?" to reach the complete, final conclusion and to understand why things were the way they were. 

It seemed impossibly, almost agonizingly simple now that he saw it; it was the same twisted sort of logic that lay behind all curses, purposeful _or_ unintended, and now that he recognized it he found it almost incredible that he hadn't seen it all along... He had accused Duo of being fake and superficial, of fabricating an attachment, and then he had cursed him; so what Duo required to escape the curse was a _real_ attachment, a connection to someone that went beyond the superficial. 

Of course there was more to it than that, or else the curse would have been broken decades ago, but that was the baseline. And it couldn't be Trowa, since he was restrained by the curse as well. Obviously it could be Heero, though... and Trowa had a feeling he knew exactly what kind of attachment it was -- though naturally he wasn't going to walk in there and say that. The last time he'd given his opinion on what Duo felt for someone else, it had ended in plastic and almost a century of grief. But he _could_ explain the physicalities that were required, and the curse _could_ be broken. 

The curse could be broken. After eighty-seven years, the curse could be broken. 

He had completely lost track of what he was doing, so deep in his own thoughts and the attendant emotions that he'd forgotten Quatre was here -- and, as a matter of fact, where 'here' even was. Now he looked around, gradually noticing and remembering. He was seated in the armchair in his study, very still, staring at nothing, and Quatre was beside him with a box of Kleenex. This was undoubtedly because tears were still pouring down Trowa's face, running unchecked over his cheeks and neck to soak his collar or sneak beneath it. 

Turning his head, he met Quatre's eyes, and saw hope and curiosity and a certain amount of worry in the attractive face. And he realized belatedly that Quatre, devoid of magical skill, wouldn't have any idea of the breakthrough he'd just had. He reached out a faintly-trembling hand, took a tissue from the box Quatre held, and said, "I know how to break the curse." His voice shook a little, but the words came out clear enough. 

Quatre drew in and then let out a long breath, his mouth curving into a pleased smile that seemed at once to commend Trowa and invite him to share further insight. "I knew you could do it," he said quietly, his tone an echo of what that welcoming smile conveyed. 

Trowa paused in the act of drying his face and said, "I couldn't have without the news you brought me. Thank you." 

Quatre's smile became even warmer, but all he said, in a somewhat amused tone, was, "I was just the messenger." 

"Messenger," Trowa murmured, echoing him almost blankly. Inside he was momentarily overwhelmed by the thought of carrying this infinitely good message to Duo. When he found that once again he'd moved without really noticing it -- this time standing from the chair into which he'd sunk at some point in his shock -- he also found himself smiling at Quatre. And it wasn't the first time he'd smiled at Quatre lately, was it? He looked around, then headed for his bathroom. When he returned, he found Quatre leaning on the doorframe between the study and the bedroom looking curious. 

Trowa raised his newly-lensed eyes to meet Quatre's again and said, "No reason to distract them from the point." Quatre grinned his understanding and turned to lead the way out of the house. 

Stepping into Heero's apartment for the first time in over a week, Trowa found his old friend and Heero involved in a rather strange-sounding discussion that might have been about basketball and might have been about elbows, and either way seemed to be pushing the limits on how animated each was capable of becoming. Trowa discovered, somewhat to his surprise, that his smile only grew at the sight of them. Yes, he could see it all now. 

Heero looked over, his gaze fixing on Quatre. "Duke won," he said, then added as if in afterthought, "Hello, Trowa." 

At this, Duo's head swiveled entirely around -- causing, Trowa thought, every single human in the room to wince. "Trowa!" he cried. "I have elbows!!" 

"I heard." Trowa had sobered again. Yes, he knew now what needed to be done, but it definitely fell into the category of things easier said. Heero was off to a good start, but could he keep it up for as long as was necessary? If not, was it likely Duo would ever find another person that could? He'd waited eighty-seven years for someone that could get him even this far... 

Trowa moved to stand before them, between the silent television and the sofa and end table, looking down at both doll and human. They stared back; his new position (thankfully) required a far less extreme angle of Duo's head, and Heero gave Trowa the usual polite blankness. Trowa neither knew nor cared why Heero disliked him; Heero liked Duo, and that was all that mattered -- and probably, Trowa thought, the reason there was just a touch of intrigued anticipation to his expression as well at the moment: Heero was hoping Trowa had come in here with good news. They'd just have to see how good he considered it. 

"I know how to break the curse," Trowa said at last, slowly and clearly. 

Duo went absolutely still. Of course this wasn't difficult for him, given his construction, but seeing someone go so impossibly motionless, no matter what he was made of, was actually almost as uncanny as seeing a doll moving on his own. It was reminiscent of death, and Trowa didn't like it. He reached out and picked Duo up in a sudden, impetuous gesture. 

Heero twitched forward slightly, as if with an instinctive movement immediately restrained, and seemed to attempt to cover this up by saying a little breathlessly, "How?" 

"Yeah," said Duo, speaking at last nearly inaudibly. "How?" As he had that night when they'd been reunited, he sounded as if Trowa's words had given him a sudden, desperate hope that he was trying wildly not to indulge lest he be hurt again. 

Trowa fixed his gaze on the doll's face, so disconcertingly, painfully, simultaneously close to and far from the face of the human that had been his best friend. How he wished _he_ could be the one to break the curse. As it was, he wouldn't have any control whatsoever over whether or not this was successful. Hell, he didn't even know if Heero was going to be willing to try it. He had the information he needed, but it was crashing down on him more and more heavily just how uncertain the situation still remained. 

"Having a friend who knows about the curse and wants to help you out of it is the key," Trowa said, gesturing at Heero. He'd chosen these words very carefully -- they were technically true, but not intrusive enough to get him into trouble. "You and Heero have hardly been apart at all this week, have you?" 

A silence followed this statement, but this one was less shocked and anticipatory than it was contemplative. Finally Duo said, "That's right, isn't it? Actually, Heero, I don't think you've even gone anywhere since, like, Tuesday or something... except to get the mail, wasn't it? But you took me with you then..." 

Heero confirmed this with a brief sound. 

Trowa nodded. "And you've seen the result." He reached up with his free hand and drew a finger over Duo's arm, from the stiff little sleeve down to what would be his wrist if it were willing to bend. 

Immediately Duo lifted his forearm, turning his head to look at it with a little plastic grin, and Trowa saw that the newly-revealed elbow was more like a human joint than a doll's -- that is, there was no sign of it; the arm simply bent. "Yeah, I can totally make rude gestures at people again finally," Duo was gloating. "I won't demonstrate on you, though," he added magnanimously, looking back up at Trowa and continuing to grin. 

Despite knowing Duo could not feel it, Trowa squeezed him affectionately at this typical statement. "So what you need to do to become fully human again," he went on, "is to stay close to Heero." 

"How close?" Heero asked. 

"Within your psychic field," Trowa replied, glancing briefly at him. "For anyone untrained, that's usually about a five-foot radius, though I'll do a spell to determine more precisely how large yours is. In your own home, or any place that bears your psychic imprint, you may have a longer working distance, but I would not count on it." 

Duo said nothing, obviously digesting this, but Heero put his finger right onto the center of the issue with another laconic question: "How long?" 

Trowa turned his full attention to Heero now, examining his impassive face intently. This, he knew, was the crucial point, the moment that would determine whether Duo would have a chance at being human again or would start another perhaps century-long search for someone else to fulfill the curse's cruelly personal requirements. He took a deep breath and answered steadily, "A full lunar cycle."


	85. Plastic Part 35

A moment that seemed to stretch into forever followed as the complete implications of Trowa's words hit home. 

Five feet. 

A full lunar cycle. 

_Good lord._

Heero thought about his 'private' cubicle at work. He thought about his co-workers on the sales floor, difficult to put up with at the best of times, and remembered fleetingly how he'd been sure they would react, that first day, if they saw him carrying a doll. He thought about how quickly gossip spread through the building, heard it repeated in a dozen shrill but lowered voices that the Sales Coordinator had a Barbie sitting on his desk. He thought about grocery shopping with a doll seated in the cart, then trying to explain to the checker that, no, he hadn't pulled it off the shelf and opened it, but had brought it in from home. He thought about going down to the apartment office to drop off May rent holding a doll. He thought about dinner at his parents' house tomorrow with a doll in his hand, and felt a little faint. 

He thought about having Duo with him all the time. 

He thought about Duo human, and resolve filled him. Because, really, he didn't care what it took; he didn't care what he had to suffer; if he had to live in Hell for a month to break this stupid curse, then that was damn well what he was going to do. 

The moment stretched on -- it was probably two or three seconds, actually, but it didn't matter much; his thoughts were moving at light speed in any case -- and it occurred to him next how _he_ would react if he were in Duo's position... if a friend of his were being asked for his sake to go through what he vaguely anticipated now. He knew how he would feel, and he was fairly sure Duo's response would be much the same. But for Duo to feel guilty or at fault about this was the last thing Heero wanted; the process of breaking the curse shouldn't make it _worse_ for Duo. He'd gone through enough already. 

So as the moment ended, Heero said calmly, "That's it? Duo just has to stay within five feet of me for a month, and he'll be human again?" 

"'That's it?'" Duo, still in Trowa's hand, echoed weakly. "Heero, are you..." He trailed off, apparently unable to complete the thought. 

"No blood sacrifice?" Heero went on coolly. "No dragons to fight or Nome Kings to outwit?" 

"That's it," Trowa confirmed. He was still staring intently into Heero's face, and Heero thought he knew why: it was all on _his_ shoulders now, for some reason, and Trowa was anxious to know that he was up to the task. Why Trowa couldn't do it himself Heero didn't want to ask; he would rather not even sail _near_ those waters, since he thought the ensuing discussion would probably drive him crazy. He was simply glad (on the level beneath the one on which he was already feverishly bracing himself for the month to come) that he could be of use to Duo -- and perhaps secretly, horribly, a little glad that Trowa couldn't. 

"That's easy," he said confidently. 

"Easy?" Duo burst out. "Easy?? Heero, are you _thinking_ about this? Sneaking me down to the laundry room in a basket is one thing, but a _whole month_??" 

"Yeah, do you think you can put up with me for that long?" Heero asked, trying his damndest to speak lightly. 

"Heero, _me_ putting up with _you_ is _not_ going to be the problem." Duo still sounded shocked, but simultaneously amused and a little exasperated. "Are you thinking at all about what this will involve?" 

"He's right, Heero." It was the first thing Quatre had said since entering. He too seemed somewhat amused, and a little uneasy. "This may be really hard on you." 

Heero forced a shrug. "If that's what it takes." 

"Heero..." said Duo faintly. 

Trowa still hadn't withdrawn his pointed gaze, but at Heero's statement he gave a brief little nod, apparently satisfied. "I'll go draw up a spell to find the exact dimensions of your psychic field," he said quietly, and turned to set Duo down. 

Duo looked up at him from the table as Trowa's hand withdrew, and said just as quietly, "Thanks, Trois." 

Trowa appeared startled, and Heero could tell without even asking that nobody had called him 'Trois' in a very long time. Trying to stave off jealousy, he reminded himself that a month's close proximity trumped a cute nickname any day; but that didn't make it any easier to hear Trowa's parting, "Just hope it works, Deux," as the magician touched the top of Duo's head with two fingertips before he walked away. 

When Trowa was gone, a long silence fell. It was very much like the last time he had walked out of this room, back when he'd done his failed divination with the candles. Heero was staring down at Duo thoughtfully, and he knew Quatre was staring at _him_. Duo was staring straight forward at neither of them, but Heero was certain they were all thinking about the same thing. 

This guess was confirmed when Duo finally swiveled his head to look at where Heero still sat on the couch. "Are you sure about this?" he asked. 

"It can't possibly be as tough as being a doll for a hundred years," Heero said, still struggling for a casual tone. 

"That doesn't mean it's not going to suck," said Duo bluntly. "I mean, I can't ask... you don't have to do this for me." 

"But I'm going to anyway," Heero shrugged. 

"Well, thanks." Duo sounded a bit baffled and perhaps, despite Heero's best efforts, a little guilty, but definitely grateful. 

"I haven't done anything yet," Heero reminded him. "Start thanking me a week from now. Oh, and, once you're human," he added with a wry smile, "I think you'll owe me lunch every day for a _year_." 

Duo laughed. "OK, fine," he said, in something more like his usual tone. "I just hope you know what you're getting into." 

"I hope so too," replied Heero. He looked around, though he couldn't see down the hall to the glass balcony door from this angle. "What's the moon like right now, anyway?" 

"It was full four nights ago," Quatre said unexpectedly. "April's only got thirty days, so May third's probably the day you want, but I'm not sure. It'll be easiest to look up a lunar calendar online or something and find the exact date." 

Heero hadn't had any idea that Quatre paid so much attention to the moon, but wasn't going to turn down the advice. 

Quatre shook his head, evidently not quite sure what to think. "This will be... interesting." 

Heero snorted. 

"Well, I'm going to head home," Quatre said next, a little reluctantly. "But you guys will definitely be seeing me tomorrow." 

"Night, Quatre," said Duo abstractedly. 

"Yeah, see you," said Heero. 

Quatre nodded and made his way to the door, and Heero thought he was chuckling faintly as he let himself out. 

Then Heero turned to stare again at Duo, who seemed lost in contemplation. Several moments passed in silence before Heero finally reached out to pick the doll up and stand. "C'mon, Duo," he said. "Let's go to bed." 

And it was a sure sign of how serious were Duo's thoughts at the moment that all he said in response to this was, "OK."


	86. Plastic Part 36

  


He probably shouldn't have done it, but Quatre simply couldn't help himself; he _had_ to peek into Heero's bedroom the next morning. It wasn't that he expected to see anything terribly interesting; it was just that the _whole thing_ was so interesting he wanted to reconnect. 

Duo was sitting on Heero's cluttered nightstand -- which, Quatre reflected in some amusement, was really just the bedroom equivalent of an end table -- still and silent, apparently watching Heero sleep in what had to be the most boring way to spend eight or nine hours Quatre could think of. Despite how quietly Quatre moved, Duo looked up as he opened the door and put his head in. The doll said nothing, but gave him a tiny grin and a two-armed wave from the elbows that might have been described as a jazz-hand-wave if his fingers had been capable of splaying. 

Amused, Quatre returned the gesture -- though he, not being quite so excited about his own elbows, used a more traditional version -- also did not risk awakening Heero with a verbal greeting, and withdrew back into the hallway. 

He still hadn't entirely wrapped his brain around what was required to break the curse. On the one hand, as Heero had said, it was a surprisingly easy solution, requiring no blood or complicated magical ceremonies... but on the other, it was likely to be monumentally inconvenient for Heero -- Heero, who liked nothing better than never to draw attention to himself over anything. Quatre wasn't really surprised that his friend was willing to undertake the task, but his mood was a perfect mixture of amusement and horror as he thought about what the task entailed. He would very much have liked to discuss it with Heero in private, but it seemed he wouldn't have a chance at such a conversation for quite some time now. 

Today he had other plans, in any case. He'd specifically turned down a lunch invitation from some other friends in order to carry them out, in fact. 

Before Trowa could ask who was there, Quatre was identifying himself and calling out a hearty good morning to the little house in general. He couldn't be certain of what sort of mood he would find Trowa in after yesterday's events, but he had a sneaking suspicion there would be guilt or melancholy involved for any of a number of reasons -- and therefore some enthusiastic cheerfulness on his part might be exactly what was needed. 

What he found, in fact, was nothing short of absolutely typical: Trowa seated in his armchair appearing distant, like he hadn't slept in days, and neither very happy nor terribly upset. This didn't necessarily mean, however, that he _wasn't_ very happy or terribly upset, just that he wasn't showing it. With this in mind, Quatre asked, "How are you doing?" as he came to stand in front of him. 

"I don't know." Trowa looked as if he wasn't used to people asking him how he was -- asking and _caring_, especially -- and Quatre fully believed that the frank answer he gave was due solely to the fact that he'd been such a hermit for so long he'd gotten out of the habit of politely lying in response to that particular question as most people did. "I'm glad we've found out how to break the curse, of course, but it feels... anticlimactic. It wasn't that I was hoping for something painful or horrible, but..." He shook his head slightly. "I don't know what I was hoping." 

"You were hoping _you_ would be the one who could break the curse," said Quatre with sympathetic surety. And he was almost as sure that Trowa really _had_ hoped it would require something painful or horrible, so he could live out a penance nobody else desired of him. Suddenly Quatre was glad of what the answer had turned out to be -- but could Trowa ever see it that way? "Don't worry," he continued reassuringly. "Heero's a great guy, and he cares about Duo too." If Quatre was any judge of his best friend's behavior, that was rather an understatement. "You can count on him." 

Perhaps Trowa also recognized the understatement, for his face seemed to darken somewhat. "I'd rather not," he said bluntly. 

"There's nothing wrong with letting a friend do some of the work." In Quatre's haste to vouch for Heero's pure intentions, he may have stressed the word 'friend' a little too much. It made him uneasy, too... because if Trowa needed to be reassured about Heero hanging out with Duo reading books aloud and watching TV, Quatre should probably offer some kind of reassurance to Duo about his own behavior toward Trowa. Except that Duo had never seemed anything but pleased when he noticed Quatre going to visit Trowa. But, then, if Duo was more easygoing, possibly more trusting than his bitter, reclusive boyfriend, it would be no great surprise. 

Trowa had nothing to say. Or rather, as on a few previous occasions, it seemed he might well have quite a bit to say if only he wanted to continue the discussion at all. Instead he just glanced around as if reminding himself where he was and murmured, "What's the time?" 

"Almost one, here," replied Quatre, allowing the subject to be changed. "Let's go out to lunch." 

Now Trowa looked up at him. "'Out?'" he echoed blankly. 

"Yes." Quatre gave an explanatory gesture. "Out of your house, where you spend far too much time." 

"Why?" wondered Trowa, still in that baffled tone. 

"To celebrate," Quatre said. 

"I think we still have an entire month to hold our breaths before we can celebrate," Trowa said dully. 

With a pitying smile, Quatre restrained himself from rolling his eyes. "After eighty-seven years, you don't think that finally knowing how to break the curse is something worth celebrating?" 

"I'll celebrate when the curse is actually broken." 

"OK, fine. I'm going to hold you to that. And for now, instead of a celebration, how about just a break? And I don't mean the kind of break where you sit there staring at that candlestick for hours thinking about how everything's your fault." 

Trowa's brows drew together slightly. "I don't--" 

"Yes, you do. We've been over this. You need to get away from everything in here for a while, so let's go out to lunch. Aren't you hungry?" 

Evidently almost against his will, Trowa admitted, "Yes." Then he gestured at the paper he'd apparently been working on at the table, and said with just a touch of helplessness, "I was planning on finding the dimensions of Heero's psychic field as soon as he was awake." 

"You can do that later. He knows it's about five feet, _and_ he's at home." 

"But--" 

Quatre had feared it might come to this. A little frustrated, he put on his best wheedling tone and puppy-dog eyes, and said daringly, "Come on, Trois. I just know you'll feel better if you get out of here for a while." 

_That_ got Trowa's full attention. He stared up at Quatre from behind his unnatural green contacts, brows drawing together again slightly, and seemed at a loss as to what to say. 

It was a little horrible to be doing this to someone else's boyfriend (well, it was always horrible in any case, but it was an effective last resort), but Quatre was not going to lose this debate. He tweaked his expression to look slightly more pathetic and vulnerable, and said softly, sweetly, "Please?" 

Appearing almost hypnotized, Trowa said, "All right." 

Quatre beamed. 

Trowa drew in a deep breath as he rose slowly from his chair. "Where are we going?" 

"Well, there are some highly-rated seafood places around here; I looked it up online." 

"I don't go out into this town," said Trowa flatly. 

"What?" Quatre was ready to shout in frustration at this newest objection. He just wanted to go out to lunch; was that so hard? He'd even done the big-eyed wheedling thing! But he forced himself to ask calmly, "Why not?" 

"Because if people around here get to know what I look like, eventually they will notice I don't age." 

"How do you ever shop for anything?" Quatre wondered, bemused. 

"If I need to, I jump to another city. Never the same one twice, though." 

Quatre stared at him. So in addition to guilt and shame and despair, Trowa had been living with paranoia all this time. Dragging him back into the human world was going to be even more work than Quatre had realized. 

Eventually he asked, "Well, can you jump us to some place where we can have lunch, then?" feeling, even as he said it, a sudden bubbling excitement at the thought of Trowa touching him again for the teleportation magic. 

Trowa frowned slightly. As far as Quatre could tell, however, it wasn't an expression of discontentment this time; rather, he seemed to be considering something, as if he'd had an idea he wasn't entirely certain he wanted to implement. Finally he murmured, "Why not?" and looked up at Quatre once more. The ghost of a smile had replaced the thoughtful frown, and he lifted one arm to welcome Quatre to him. 

Although he feared his suddenly-pounding heart might betray him, Quatre stepped forward gladly. Trowa's arm closed lightly around his waist, his voice sounded, low and incomprehensible, in Quatre's ear, and then they were lifted into weightlessness and away.


	87. Plastic Part 37

Heero had some cleaning to do on Sunday, to which he had honestly been looking forward more than to the dinner with his parents in the evening. It was good practice making sure he was aware at all times of where Duo was, and at remembering to pick him up and move him whenever he needed to go into another part of the apartment. It was nice having Duo around, too, as he worked, although their ongoing conversation was often broken when Duo's little voice just couldn't rise high enough to overcome the normal noises of cleaning. And once everything was spotless (or at least most of the apartment looked better), it was time for a shower. 

"Do I get a shower too?" Duo wondered hopefully. 

"You don't need one," Heero replied. 

"It wasn't me getting clean that I was really thinking of," said Duo, managing to sound coy and licentious at the same time. 

"You sitting outside the door worked just fine earlier." 

"Well, yeah, I'm not interested in toilet business." Now the tone was 'righteous indignation' mixed with 'shudder.' "A shower is totally different." 

Heero laughed, set Duo down just outside the bathroom door, and closed the latter against the doll's further protests. 

Having given a lot of thought to what was asked of him for the coming month -- both last night while he lay awake in bed with his eyes closed, pretending to sleep, and today on and off while he cleaned -- he'd foreseen the shower question arising, and _had_ considered letting Duo sit on the bathroom counter facing away from him. He had found, however, that he couldn't bear the thought of getting his business done in the shower in the presence of the unavailable, inhuman guy he had a crush on -- especially when that guy (in hypothetical human form) figured increasingly in his thoughts at those moments, and even if that guy ostensibly wasn't looking. 

Right now, as he stood under the hot water and felt the sweat and cleaning products of the last couple of hours wash off his skin, his considerations were following a different track. He was thinking about that brief exchange they'd just had, and how interesting it was (and not really in a good way) that Duo flirted constantly with both Heero and Quatre but never with Trowa. 

Heero was about as far from being flirtatious by nature as anyone he knew, but somehow with Duo it was easy. Conversation in general was easy with Duo. Duo even made him laugh. He didn't laugh with most other people, but with Duo it happened frequently. Heero wondered whether all of this was simply because he _liked_ Duo or because Duo, not being human, failed to set off some kind of subconscious alarm in Heero's head that went off for most of the rest of the world and caused him to stiffen up. Then, maybe it was because Duo didn't set off the alarm that Heero liked him in the first place. 

Thinking about Duo too much in the shower was going to get him in trouble one of these days, especially as things now stood... but thoughts about Duo's nature and how it had been affecting Heero almost couldn't help but lead to other reflections... such as a recurring daydream about a human Duo and what he would be like. Which was, in Heero's mind, the same as the Duo he knew now -- the same fascinating mix of casualness and intensity, the same silly carelessness atop intelligence sharp as a knife -- but with a knockout body to match. And to such imaginings there was only one possible end. Which was why he really couldn't have Duo in here while he showered. 

Once he was clean (physically), he dried off and wrapped the towel around his waist before leaving the bathroom. And as he bent down to retrieve Duo from the floor, the doll wolf-whistled at him. If Heero managed not to blush -- not necessarily at Duo's teasing reaction to his nudity, but at receiving such a gesture at all from someone about whom he'd been actively fantasizing not five minutes before -- it was only because he was so surprised. "I didn't know you could whistle," he said. 

"Neither did I, until just now," replied Duo in his 'shrug' tone. "I guess necessity really _is_ the mother of invention." 

Heero snorted. "So it was _necessary_ for you to whistle at me?" 

"Yeah..." said Duo slowly, pensively. Then, as if he'd thought it through carefully and come to a conclusion, he repeated with more surety, "Yeah. There are some things words just don't work for." He started whistling again, seemingly experimentally; at first it was a patternless meandering of notes, but eventually it turned into something that sounded a bit like the intro from _Knight Rider_ (not that Heero planned on admitting he recognized it). Listening to the little sound, which was thin and high like a bird's song, Heero looked through his closet, abstractedly considering what he should wear. 

"That is the greatest thing ever," Duo declared, breaking off whistling. "I wonder how long I've been able to do that." 

"If you could do it all along," Heero ventured, "you would probably have noticed before now." 

"I think you're right," agreed Duo cheerfully. "So it was probably all you." 

Heero set Duo down on the dresser and began looking for clean underwear. "So necessity wasn't really the mother at all." 

"No," Duo replied, affecting a serious tone worthy of a soap opera. "It was you all along. _You_ were the mother of my invention, Heero." 

And there Duo had made him laugh again. It was almost uncanny. Heero stepped back into the closet to get dressed. 

"Well, now the apartment's cleaned up," he said when he emerged, "we've got a few hours to kill before dinner." 

"We could watch TV," Duo suggested as Heero picked him up, but at the expression immediately turned down upon him went on hastily, "No, I'm kidding, I'm kidding! Don't kill me!" 

"I'm going to find something to eat," Heero said. "Then maybe we can finish Ozma or something." 

"Oh, good idea," agreed Duo. "I've gotta know what happens." 

Heero smiled slightly and headed for the kitchen. 

Interruptions for tangental discussion dragged out their finishing the third Oz book until nearly six o'clock, at which time Heero picked Duo up again and frowned down at him. "It's about time to go," he said, and wasn't really surprised to find his tone somewhat surly. 

"And don't _you_ sound excited," Duo sympathized. "Why are you looking at me like that." 

"Listen... I'm sorry about this..." Heero sighed. "I can't... I can't carry you in there. I've thought about it, and I just can't take a doll to my parents' house and try to explain it to my mother. You're going to have to go in my pocket." He touched one of the cargo pockets on the pants he'd chosen earlier for this very purpose. 

"Why are you apologizing?" Duo chuckled a little, apparently half amused and half bitter. "It's not like I don't understand." 

"Well, look. This is the only situation where I _ever_ plan on doing this to you. Everywhere else, even work, I plan on keeping you out in the open. But I just don't think I can face walking into my parents' house with you in my hand. And I want you to know that's because you're a doll, and because things are the way they are with my parents, _not_ because it's you." 

"I..." Duo at a loss for words was a rare sight, and even now it only seemed to last a moment. Heero wished very much that Duo's range of facial expressions was greater, because he would have liked to know exactly why his statement had had this effect. As it was, the moment passed and they were back to the usual meaningless flirtation: "So otherwise you wouldn't mind taking me to _meet your parents_, huh?" 

"That's right." Heero smiled faintly. "So it's really OK to put you in my pocket?" 

"You'll probably have to bend me over," Duo told him suggestively. 

Heero rolled his eyes, but he was still smiling. "Sometimes you try too hard." 

"I'm aaalllllways hard," Duo drawled, which Heero supposed was perfectly true. "Now help me get into your pants!"


	88. Plastic Part 38

  


The pocket plan evidently wasn't actually to be implemented until they reached the place, so Duo got to sit in the passenger seat of Heero's rusty old car again. He would rather have been on the dashboard so he could see out the windows, but little purchase was available there for someone that couldn't really hold on, so instead he satisfied himself with looking at Heero. And as they progressed through town toward Heero's parents' house, it was as if they were also traveling back in time to the first day they'd met, back to that unresponsive, mistrustful Heero that didn't smile. 

Duo watched him with what would have been undisguised curiosity and concern if his current predicament didn't so effectively disguise anything he didn't choose to verbalize, wondering, through the cool silence that had muffled the car's interior, what in the world was going on between Heero and his parents that could cause this kind of reaction. Heero usually seemed so intensely _effective_, as if there was nothing he couldn't do and no situation he couldn't handle... even a magical talking doll hadn't fazed him for long... What was it about his family that he seemed to feel he had to put up a barrier against? Duo had to remind himself that people were sometimes really strange about their parents, which was one of several reasons he was rather glad he'd never met his. 

He'd been hoping to see some of the Asian district, where Heero had informed him his parents lived, or at least to catch a glimpse of the house that was their destination, but Heero put him into his cargo pocket before leaving the car. He _did_ have to bend him over to get him in, which Duo was _definitely_ going to bring up again later when he got the chance, and, not at all to the doll's surprise, he was still apologizing as he snapped the pocket shut and trapped Duo in darkness. 

Honestly, after the various toyboxes and backpacks Duo had occupied over the years, a pocket was nothing particularly onerous. It was better, as a matter of fact, in that he could still hear what was going on around them fairly well and reflect complacently upon the warmth of Heero's thigh all along his body. He couldn't actually _feel_ the warmth of Heero's thigh, but the awareness that it must be there was comforting, and he could probably work it into a suggestive remark later. For the moment he just listened hard. 

Heero seemed to have arrived before his sister, which meant he was alone with his parents in the house for a few minutes, and Duo was hopeful of hearing something informative during this time. At first he was disappointed when they greeted each other and went on in Japanese, but it didn't take long, even through the unfamiliar language, for him to pick up on the stiffness in their statements. After a brief, cool exchange, the mother left the room, and Heero had only his father to talk to. The latter had a quiet voice much like his son's, and didn't seem to have a lot to say -- but was this because he was naturally taciturn, or because whatever was going on was making _all_ family conversation awkward? 

When the sister, Relena, arrived, bringing with her a guest by the name of Colin, the atmosphere warmed up quite a bit, and Heero dropped out of the conversation almost entirely. Fortunately, Colin didn't seem to speak Japanese, so things at least became intelligible, even if there was still an entire aspect to the interactions that Duo was missing. 

"Hello, Colin," was the first thing anyone said in English (it was the father). "Very good to see you." 

"We're always so glad to have you over," agreed Heero's mother, who'd come back in to greet the newcomers in a much more welcoming tone than she had used on her son. "Would you like some coffee or tea before dinner?" 

"No, thanks, Mrs. Yuy." Colin had a friendly, polite voice that sounded faintly British. "I think Le wanted to show me something." 

"Yeah, we're going to look at some of the photo albums. He won't believe I bleach my hair until he sees photographic evidence." Relena, like her brother, did not seem to have their parents' slight accent, and it occurred to Duo to wonder when the family had immigrated. 

"All right," said the mother. "Ten minutes, OK?" She managed to sound both fond and authoritative at the same time. 

"Come with us, Heero," Relena commanded in much the same tone as her mother's. "It's no fun to laugh at old pictures of you if you're not there." 

Heero evidently had nothing to say in response to this, but the alacrity with which he obeyed indicated that he would definitely rather be with Relena having old pictures of himself laughed at than with his parents trying to think of something to say next. And it was also clear, within two minutes of his leaving his father and mother behind, that the problem lay with them, as Duo had guessed, and not with his sister and her friend. 

Duo would have given quite a lot (not that he really had anything to give) to see the photos the latter were exclaiming over, which seemed to be twenty years' worth of Yuy family memories. The question of Relena's natural hair color was settled almost immediately, but still Colin kept bringing it up. Duo, practiced flirt that he was, could easily tell that this was purely for the sake of complimenting her on the effect she achieved and teasing her about her supposed vanity, and the relationship between the two became a little more clear. 

"And here's _another_ one of us playing in that refrigerator box," Relena laughed. "I swear we got half a year out of that thing before it fell apart." 

"How many costumes did you two _have_?" wondered Colin in amusement. 

"You could always tell it was us, though," remarked Relena slyly. "Because I always wore that stupid princess hat with the streamer, and Heero always had that look of heroic determination." 

Now Duo was absolutely _dying_ to see these pictures. This was so unfair. 

"And never smiled, apparently," Colin added. His tone suggested he wasn't entirely sure whether or not he was allowed to tease Heero yet. 

Heero made a noise that might have been a snort and might have been a faint laugh, and there was the slapping sound of more album pages being turned. 

"_Wow_, Le, you were a pretty kid." 

"There's no need to sound so surprised about it," said Relena in mock indignation. 

Colin laughed, and, from the sound of it, kissed her. "But seriously, look at these... you were even the prettiest baby I've ever seen!" 

"I think that one's Heero, actually." 

"Oh. Hey, Heero. You were the prettiest baby I've ever seen." 

Heero made the same noise as before; Duo was fairly sure now that it was a sort of quiet snort of vaguely amused acknowledgment. He hadn't said a word since he came in here, and _still_ the conversation seemed less awkward than the one he'd previously been having with his father. 

Relena and Colin continued to discuss the pictures in a manner calculated to allow for as much flirtation between them as possible, Heero remained wordless, and, in the darkness of Heero's pocket, Duo was kicking himself mentally all of a sudden. 

How was it that he had never mentioned to Heero that he could choose who heard him when he spoke? He could make all the comments he was dying to make about Heero's family and the sister's boyfriend, and nobody but Heero would hear him... except that doing so might startle Heero into a demonstration of surprise that would be noticed by the others and necessitate some kind of possibly embarrassing explanation, and Heero would not thank him for that. But, dammit, if only Duo had remembered to tell him beforehand... 

Eventually -- actually, Duo thought it had been very precisely the promised ten minutes -- the mother called them to come have dinner. Duo was pleased; if he wasn't to be allowed to see the photos, at least he could hope for some kind of elucidation on the family issues through the next overheard conversation. 

This next conversation turned out to be simply a continuation of the current one. "Mama, whatever happened to those old costumes we always used to wear when we were kids?" Relena was asking as (to the best of Duo's knowledge) they were all sitting down around the dinner table. 

"They are in a box in one of the bedrooms," the mother answered with surprising immediacy. She didn't even seem to have to think about it. Duo remembered, back when he'd owned things, sometimes being unable to locate the ones he used every day; something in a box from however many years back would undoubtedly have been lost to him forever (or at least until he came across it by accident while looking for something entirely different). 

"Let's see," said Colin. "In the pictures I saw a ballerina, a musketeer, a princess--" 

"Several princesses," Relena corrected him. "Different dress, different princess." 

"Several princesses," Colin conceded in amusement. "And a... was it a fox?" 

"And then I'd combine them. Fox-princess Vixine of the Forest Kingdom had a long run, and so did Jzi-Jzi the fencing ballerina -- who, actually, I think was also secretly a princess." This was met with general laughter, and Relena went on enthusiastically, "Heero did that too: I think Princess Jzi-Jzi employed musketeers in addition to being one herself, or they were part of the ballet? Or something... but Heero couldn't tell anyone that he was a musketeer serving a secret princess, because..." She trailed off, laughing, as she tried to remember. 

"Because the coach of my football team had a rule against being part of any other organization," Heero supplied at a deadpan. 

"Yeah, he was a bit of a jerk," Relena agreed. "But wasn't that the game where you died in my service and became a zombie? And you were so strong and fast then that you were the star of the team and the coach stopped caring what you did as long as you were there to win the games for them?" 

"Because everyone knows how _fast_ zombies are," put in Colin, breathless with laughter. 

"That's right," said Heero. 

It was a good thing Duo had gotten so much practice keeping silent in the face of extreme provocation, because otherwise he wouldn't have been able to prevent himself from laughing aloud with the rest of them. This was _definitely_ something he was going to have to bring up with Heero later. He wished he knew how old they'd been... it had probably been obvious from the pictures, but of course he hadn't seen them. 

One thing that made it easier to stay calm and not give himself away was the interesting fact that the laughter of Heero's parents had ceased rather abruptly the very moment Relena had mentioned his name. Relena and Colin were laughing enough to cover up the lapse, but Duo hadn't failed to notice. Why was Princess Vixine of the Animal Kingdom amusing when zombie musketeer football player Heero wasn't? Moreover, why did the mother suddenly change the subject at this point by asking Colin some stupid polite question? What _was_ going on here?


	89. Plastic Part 39

  


"And how is your work, Colin?" asked Heero's mother in her formal way. 

Colin, the type of casual yuppie you would expect to have a pastel cardigan tied by the arms around his neck, was adjusting admirably to Mrs. Yuy, despite not having spent a huge amount of time with the future in-laws yet. "Very good, thanks," he replied in equally polite tones. "In my current position, I really enjoy my work, which I think a lot of people can't say that." 

"And we hear you're very good at what you do," Heero's father commented. 

"I like to think so," Colin smiled. "Of course, it helps that I'm best friends with the manager... but still I think I do pretty good work even without the favoritism." 

Relena laughed. "That sounds just like Heero." She grinned cheekily at him. "How's _Quatre_ doing, Heero?" 

"Fine," he replied levelly. "Busy, as always." He gave one corner of a smile to acknowledge the fact that she was teasing him, but couldn't complete the expression: once again their parents had gone abruptly, stiffly silent as Relena had sought to include her brother in the conversation. 

Relena's face took on a thoughtful expression. "Do you guys still hang out with those dentists?" 

"Yes," Heero replied. God, they did, didn't they? In fact, they were all going to be playing tennis on Saturday, weren't they? And Heero was going to be carrying a _doll_ to that, wasn't he? 

Well, he'd told Duo he meant to keep him out in the open as much as possible, and he didn't plan on making a lie of that. He would just have to think up an excuse for Duo's presence before Saturday. He would probably have plenty of opportunity to do so during the coming work-week... 

"Are they any good? I need to go see a dentist." 

Here their mother broke in somewhat sharply. "Why do you need a dentist?" 

"Oh, this crown in back is bothering me again." 

"But didn't Lindsay refer you to her dentist?" 

"Yes, but I didn't like it there." Relena looked like she was going to continue, probably to reiterate her question to Heero, but their mother jumped on her pause. This was no surprise; she was obviously in take-control-of-the-conversation mode. 

"Colin, you've met Lindsay, haven't you?" She'd turned to Relena's fiance again with her polite smile, and when Colin, taken by surprise, nodded rather than answer with his mouth full, she went on immediately. "Lindsay is so nice, isn't she?" 

"I was lucky to find a roommate on such short notice," Relena said, agreeing only obliquely. "I hope I've given _her_ enough notice so she can find someone to take my room in July." 

"Not just that you found a roommate," their mother said, forcing the issue, "but you found someone so _nice_." She looked around pointedly. 

"She _is_ nice," Colin agreed earnestly, as was expected of him. 

"She may want to buy my car," Relena put in somewhat hastily. "That'll make things easier, since I won't have to list it anywhere." 

"That _would_ be convenient," Mrs. Yuy nodded. "What a good friend she is to you. Anyone would be lucky to have someone like her around, I think." She didn't have to look over at Heero; she had a way of _not_ looking at someone that produced essentially the same result as if she had. "Didn't you say she isn't dating anyone, though?" 

Relena shared her mother's talent for pointedly not looking. Now she, too, didn't look at Heero as she answered calmly, "That's right." 

"How strange!" 

Frustrated, Heero rose somewhat abruptly. "Excuse me," he said, and left the dining room. He moved briskly down the hall with its noren-hung cream walls, entered the green bathroom, locked the door behind him, and turned on the fan for cover. Then he extracted Duo from his pocket. 

"Hi," said Duo. 

"Hi," replied Heero darkly. He stared at the doll silently for a long moment before asking, "How are you doing in there?" 

"Just enjoying the drama," Duo said in his 'grin' tone. "But your sister seems pretty nice." 

"She is." Heero gave a somewhat curt nod, then felt his lips pressing together as if he never wanted to speak again. Which was pretty much the case. 

Duo seemed to pick up on this, for all he said was, "Well, hang in there." 

Heero nodded again, then returned Duo to his pocket. He didn't want to discuss 'the drama,' it was true, but he wouldn't have minded being able to express to Duo how unexpectedly bolstering it was to be able to exchange even these few, meaningless words with him in the middle of it. Perhaps sometime he would, if he could figure out a way to do it without confessing exactly how he felt about Duo at the same time. 

Back in the dining room, the conversation had taken a turn for the slightly less annoying, and Relena smiled apologetically at Heero as he resumed his seat. After that, he was more than happy to be awkwardly ignored for a while. But before it was even time for dessert, it started again. 

They'd returned to the briefly-touched-upon topic of Relena's car, and were discussing how much she was likely to get for it and what sort of vehicle she and Colin were looking to purchase together. Heero knew what was coming; he hadn't really expected to get through the night without it. 

"You should buy Relena's car, Heero," said their mother at about the moment he'd know she would. "That would work out nice for everybody." 

"I don't need Relena's car, mama," Heero replied flatly. 

"Yes, you do," she said. "You can't keep driving that thing you have." 

"There is nothing wrong with my car." 

"It's disgusting," she said. And she really sounded disgusted. 

"It doesn't matter what it looks like." And it didn't really matter what he said; they never listened. "It gets me places." 

"It's a _disgrace_." And she really sounded disgraced. 

"Your mother's right," his father put in. "Someone who makes as much money as you do should be ashamed to be driving a car like that." Because shame always had to come into it somehow. 

"Relena's car would be much more appropriate for you, don't you think?" said his mother in a tone that mixed wheedling and authoritativeness. 

"I don't think it's 'appropriate,'" responded Heero tightly, "to be looking for a different car when mine runs just fine." 

"But, Heero, it isn't _right_..." The mixture of exasperation and despair in his mother's voice was harsher than the discussion really warranted... but, then, the car discussion was never _really_ about the car anymore, so that was no surprise. 

"What, that ancient BMW out there?" Colin wondered, seeming a little nonplussed by the fairly rapid-fire and inexplicably intense exchange. "What's wrong with it? I mean, other than that it's obviously twenty-five years old..." 

"Do you remember," said Relena suddenly, with the air of one that has just had an idea so striking she can't help but mention it despite its only tangential relevance to the current conversation, "how when I was younger I was determined that my first car was going to be a pink limo?" 

Colin turned to her immediately, obviously captivated by this revelation. "Were you?" 

Relena nodded with a somewhat sheepish grin. "Pink used to be my favorite color, like probably every other little girl at some point or other, and I _loved_ limos. I had my heart set on having one for the longest time, even when I should have known better. It was a serious part of my financial planning for the future until I was, I think, seventeen? I had a brand picked out and I was actually looking into dealerships by the time I lost interest." 

Heero's parents had subsided by the time his sister was done with this explanation; the next time he caught Relena's eye, he made sure to give her a grateful smile. 

"Well, maybe we'll get you one someday." Colin was beaming at his fiance; evidently he thought the entire thing was some sort of adorable. Heero, who knew Relena and her determination a little better than did Colin, thought his future brother-in-law would do better to be relieved that Relena had actually given up that particular fixation. 

This led to a discussion of the couple's investment plans -- which Heero was convinced would not have been in such an advanced stage at this point if it hadn't been for the pressure from his parents -- and allowed Heero to drop out of the conversation again. Soon it was time for dessert, and Heero began silently counting down to the moment he could leave. 

Ice cream in the living room seemed like it was going to turn into a family game of some sort, and it came as no surprise to Heero that no one specifically urged him to join or sought his opinion on what they should play. Therefore it couldn't have come as a surprise to any of them when he finished eating in fairly hasty silence and stood up to leave. 

"Are you going, Heero?" Relena also stood, and went to hug him. It was a very purposeful gesture, but seemed to have been wasted on their parents. Colin, however, shook hands with him and said, in that way of his that would have been smarmy if he weren't so perfectly honest and straightforward, that it had been good to see him again. 

"Goodbye," was all his parents said, and this when Heero had already turned his back and taken a few steps toward the hall. And it wasn't particularly cold or unfriendly, just... stiff, as if they couldn't think of anything more to say, or were unwilling to say what they could think of. 

"Bye," Heero replied in almost exactly the same tone. Then he had to restrain himself from moving with undue speed toward the front door and his car on the driveway and escape.


	90. Plastic Part 40

Duo wanted nothing so much in the world as details about Heero's family and the current situation thereof, which he had just so imperfectly witnessed, but, as it had in the bathroom halfway through dinner, something about the set of Heero's jaw during the drive home told Duo not to ask. Heero's bad mood seemed to have crystallized over the course of the evening, leaving him hard and cold and very unapproachable, and Duo didn't like it one bit. 

Heero obviously didn't like it much either. With a look that was part scowl and part introspection -- Duo wondered if it was the same one he'd worn as a kid, the one Relena had described as 'heroic determination' -- he stalked into the computer room the moment they were home, pulled a book from the shelf, didn't forget to disallow Duo to see the rest of the books, and marched back to the living room. There, he put Duo onto his end table and sat down against the near arm of the couch. 

"I need to think about something else for a while," he said darkly, and held up the book, which proved to be the next volume of the Oz series. "Do you mind?" Once hastily assured that Duo didn't -- because, curious as the doll was, there really wasn't much else to say -- Heero started in. 

Duo had realized pretty quickly the reason Heero had seemed embarrassed at first about the idea of reading things to him: though he obviously enjoyed it, Heero appeared to regard reading aloud as a type of performance art, and to suffer just a touch of stage fright as a result. This had smoothed as they'd progressed through the Oz series, but it wasn't entirely gone -- and Duo thought Heero was now actually _focusing_ on the slight awkwardness he still felt at doing it in order to forget the other awkwardness of the evening and distract himself from his related feelings. Duo was torn between sympathy and amusement. 

Heero also seemed inordinately exhausted; evidently, even considering how little he'd actually done or said at his parents' house, the dinner had drained him like some kind of physical exertion. He was half-draped over the arm of the couch, almost unmoving, his face slightly overlapping the flat side of the book while his increasingly quiet words echoed off the other, perpendicular side just beyond his nose. And eventually he fell entirely silent, his eyes drifting shut and his hand stilling against the page. 

Duo observed this in equally still silence. He'd found last night that watching Heero sleep wasn't actually the worst boredom he'd ever suffered. Heero really was very pleasant to look at, and there was an unusual softness to him as he slept that merited contemplation. Duo wanted to touch him, to find out the texture of his hair and feel his warm skin; he wanted to cuddle up against him and just breathe with him. Hell, when it came to that, he'd like to breathe at all. Too bad. 

Perhaps ten minutes after Heero's eyes had closed, Duo was startled from his long staring by the sound of Trowa's door. He swiveled his head in some surprise to see Quatre emerging. As he began the slow process of turning his stiff body to face the newcomer, he said in mock accusation, "You've been over there for, like, twelve hours... If I didn't know better, I'd say you were cheating on me." 

Quatre fixed eyes on Duo that seemed at first not really to see him at all, focused slowly, and finally smiled. "Your boyfriend and I," he replied, doing a good job getting into the spirit of flirtation despite seeming a little poleaxed for some reason, "just had lunch... dinner... some kind of meal... in... Paris." 

"Huh!" Duo said. "I wouldn't have thought he knew any place in France well enough to jump to." 

"I guess he used to do research there. That artifact originally came from France." 

"Ohhhhhh. OK." That explained that, but not what had taken twelve hours. "So... you guys just randomly hopped over to France and had some kind of meal, and then...?" 

"Well, he wanted to come back and do that psychic field spell on Heero, but I..." Quatre laughed and shrugged a little. "I took French in college, but I hardly ever get a chance to _use_ it. Once I was actually there, I didn't want to leave... so I dragged him around with me looking at things all night." He smiled sheepishly. "It was his idea to go there in the first place, and then I had to go all tourist on him. The sun had come up by the time we left." 

Duo laughed as well, far more heartily than Quatre. "Good!" he said. "Get him out of the house more often, why don't you? Especially now that he doesn't need to do all that research anymore." 

Quatre gave him a curious, thoughtful smile, drawing closer and looking down past Duo at the sleeping Heero. "You know, I'm not sure why we didn't come grab you two and take you with us too... It's only the house he wants to keep you out of, away from that artifact... I think Paris is far enough away that it wouldn't have been a problem." 

"Oh, I wouldn't have intruded for the _world_," Duo drawled. "Besides, we had dinner with Heero's family, remember?" 

"Oh, yeah..." Quatre's smile turned into something more like a grimace. "How did _that_ go?" 

"Actually, I wanted to ask if you had any insight on that, while he's asleep--" Duo made a fabulous elbow-driven gesture in Heero's general direction-- "since it seems like it bugs the hell out of him: _what_ is going on there? I mean, they ignored him half the time, and the rest of the time... I'm not supposed to be able to feel things, and I was in Heero's pocket anyway, and _I_ could feel that tension." 

Quatre sighed. "Heero came out to his parents when we were juniors in college, and then they barely talked for almost the entire next year. Things kinda smoothed out after that, and they were all OK for a while, but then Relena got engaged a few months ago and reminded her parents all about the straight wedding Heero isn't going to be having and the grandchildren Heero isn't going to be providing them." 

"Yeah, OK, that all fits..." It all _sucked_, too, but at least it fit. "But if it's been years since he came out, they should totally be over it by now." 

"They _try_ to be reasonable." Again Quatre sighed. "They try not to get on his case about it... but then their disapproval comes out over other things. Little things." 

"OK, that explains... yeah..." 

"The problem is that I think underneath everything else, they still believe all that wonderful stuff people do -- he's going through a phase, he only thinks he's gay because he hasn't met the right girl yet, you can't have real love between two men, that sort of thing -- and as long as they think that way, they can never _really_ accept it." 

Duo was trying to force his stiff facial features into a scowl, and feared it wasn't working. He knew he was frowning, but with painted-on eyebrows the rest of the expression was difficult. "That's infuriating," he muttered. 

"I think if they could see Heero in a positive, long-term relationship," Quatre speculated, "they might start to overcome their false impressions. But so far nobody's been able to get that close to him, because..." He trailed off, looking at the figure on the couch and obviously not wanting to get into such personal details when Heero was right there, asleep or otherwise. 

"Really?" Duo wondered. But his momentary surprise quickly dissolved as he considered the invisible wall he'd often thought he observed just beneath Heero's exterior. He hadn't felt it so much lately, himself (tonight obviously being an exception), but he could understand how difficult it might be for someone to 'get that close to' Heero. 

He wondered how close _he_ was, and whether Heero thought of him as a friend or just an object of charity. He _would_ have told himself that people didn't read their old kids' books aloud to those they just considered objects of charity, but he had a feeling that reading aloud was about as prototypical a charitable activity as you could possibly take part in. He _was_ fairly sure that charity usually didn't involve discussing the question of Ozma's transsexuality, though, whether Tip might not have been her correct gender identity, and whether or not she could therefore be considered gay for Dorothy. That was a reassuring thought. 

Finally, somewhat weakly, he took up the lagging conversation again. "Well, I hope he..." 

"You guys are talking about me, aren't you?" Heero mumbled, slowly unsticking his face from the pages of Dorothy and the Wizard in Oz. 

"Shit, he's waking up!" Duo cried. "Quatre, quick, finish telling me what else he's got on his bookshelf!" 

Quatre raised a skeptical, amused brow, but played along even on such a brief cue. "Well, there's the Hardy Boys..." He really was remarkable, Quatre; Trowa was an idiot if he didn't notice. But, then, if they were watching the sun come up together in Paris, that probably wasn't a problem. 

Heero sat bolt upright. "Quatre--" he began in a suddenly dangerous tone. 

"And that's all I remember," Quatre finished neatly. 

Duo laughed. Heero scowled. 

Quatre reached out and patted his friend on the head in a deliberately patronizing gesture. "Go to bed, Heero. You don't want to be late for work in the morning." 

"Go to bed yourself," grumbled Heero grouchily. 

"Good night, then," Quatre said. But even as he turned away, Duo could see his grin fading into a look similar to the one he'd worn when he'd come in from Trowa's house: a sort of shell-shocked expression -- not displeased, but not entirely sure what to be instead. And as he reached for the apartment door he murmured, apparently entirely to himself, "Quelle journée..."


	91. Plastic Part 41

  


Trowa found himself unusually restless on Monday afternoon. It wasn't simply that he was unable to concentrate on the book he held and the notes he was taking -- _that_ he was more than accustomed to -- but that he could barely bring himself to sit still at all. He kept drifting out of his comfortable chair and out of the study to look through the little windows in the front door, as if he were waiting for someone. And eventually he realized that this was, in fact, precisely the case, and explained what was wrong with him. 

It didn't really matter, of course, that Quatre hadn't shown up for lunch, nor could it surprise: Quatre had gone back to work today, and wouldn't have time to be forcing food into antisocial misanthropes... and yet Trowa, almost without knowing it, had been expecting him. Realizing this now, hours after the fact, he found himself recognizably disappointed that Quatre hadn't appeared. How very different from before, when he'd considered Quatre just another follower... 

Ever since Friday evening, he knew, his attitude toward Quatre had been changing, and yesterday had only hastened the process. He doubted _anyone_ could spend an entire day with Quatre and fail to be struck by his almost aggressive good will -- a natural talent that Quatre seemed to have honed into a razor-sharp skill and practically made a business procedure out of. Quatre didn't just _want_ to help people; he _strategized_ to help people. 

But even friendly concern had its limits, and perhaps Trowa had been too extravagant yesterday. Maybe the choice of Paris had been a bit... strange. Not that Paris was any more difficult for him to get to than any other place he'd visited before or could fix on a good clear mental picture of... but it _said_ something more. People had a... _thing_... about Paris, didn't they? It was a symbol. Trowa was definitely not up to speed on cultural implications, but, even back when he had been, taking someone to Paris meant something totally different, something above and beyond accompanying them to some random seafood restaurant in a little east coast town. 

It was just that when Quatre had looked at him with those flawless, shining grey-blue eyes and called him by his old nickname and said "Please?" as if he were asking for a personal favor rather than trying to get Trowa to do something healthy for his own good... well, the impulse that had overwhelmed Trowa hadn't been just to comply, to do anything Quatre asked -- he'd been downright determined to _impress_. That was what it was. Something about Quatre, at least in that moment, had made him eager to _show off_. 

True, there might have been, in the back of Trowa's head somewhere, a faint desire to see Paris again for himself, but all _that_ had really done was contribute to the ease with which Quatre had convinced him to stay and walk around the City of Light like an idle tourist instead of getting back home and casting that spell on Heero. And perhaps Quatre, on reflection, had decided he didn't like how easily-swayed Trowa had been when there was something else he should have been doing. Or maybe Paris really had been too much. 

In any case, whatever the reason, Quatre hadn't come over for lunch today, and that probably meant he was not going to be doing so routinely in the future either, and Trowa would just have to feed himself. He was under the impression that this had been the point: to get him into the habit of eating at about the same time every day so that he would continue even when Quatre was no longer at leisure to come compel him. 

Although Trowa was conscious of hunger, however, what he did _not_ feel was any inclination to do anything about it. It had only been seven days in a row that Quatre had come over for lunch -- the span of an indrawn breath in comparison to the forty thousand Trowa had lived -- and yet, even in that short time, Trowa had gotten used to more than just a regular midday meal: it was the company that made all the difference. Eating lunch simply wouldn't be the same without Quatre there. 

This was not, of course, the only thing about which he was brooding today. He'd gone to Heero's apartment that morning to catch him before work and divine the precise dimensions of his psychic field, wish him luck, and say hello to Duo -- and this had served to remind Trowa of how little control he had over the situation, how much he was being forced to depend on someone else, and how easily everything could go wrong during the coming month. Such was the surface of his thoughts, from which he'd been trying to distract himself with books and notes; but it wasn't what was causing his restlessness. 

And then he heard his front door open. 

Surprised, he made his habitual inquiry as to who the visitor was, and felt an even greater surprise at the discernible pleasure the answer, "It's Quatre," occasioned in him. He put his book aside and rose, thus meeting Quatre halfway across the room. 

"Hi," Quatre greeted him with brisk cheer. "Have you eaten anything today?" 

"No," Trowa replied, eschewing the explanation of why, precisely, this was. 

"OK." Quatre sounded a little relieved, which seemed amusingly at odds with his desire for Trowa to eat regularly. "I usually take my lunch at one, which I didn't even think about is four over here. For some reason it never crossed my mind that if I was going to make you eat on a work day, it'd have to be an early dinner." 

Trowa hadn't considered the time difference either. "Oh," was all he found to say. 

Quatre smiled. "So come have dinner," he commanded, and turned. 

Watching him walk back toward the study door, which he'd left open, Trowa didn't follow just at first. Quatre had easy but controlled movements that seemed to match his temperament very well, and the suit pieces he wore -- charcoal grey slacks and a pale pink shirt with a candy-stripe tie -- looked particularly good on him. They also fitted well enough that Trowa judged they must be some expensive brand or perhaps even custom tailoring. None of this was at all important, his brain informed him... but his eyes, for some reason, begged to differ. 

As he moved to catch up heading for the kitchen, "How are Heero and Duo doing so far?" Trowa asked. 

"I don't know for sure." There was a definite hint of laughter to Quatre's tone. "I haven't gotten any miserable emails from Heero yet, and that's a good sign. I'm definitely going to get a report from him after work, though, about how the first day went." Trowa nodded, and the motion clearly caught Quatre's eye. "You look like you didn't get any sleep last night again. What have you been working on?" 

"If you can call it working," replied Trowa somewhat darkly, "I've been making some notes about that book I've been thinking of writing." 

Quatre looked over at him again from where he'd begun surveying the contents of the freezer as if he hadn't bought all of them, and his eyes shone with interest. "Really? You're starting on that already? Before the curse is broken?" 

"I need something to distract me," Trowa admitted. "I can't help Heero with this, and worrying about it all day won't do any good." 

"How sensible of you!" Quatre commended him. He'd turned back to the freezer, but Trowa could see the amusement on his face and hear the slight teasing tone in his voice. 

"You say that as if I'm generally without sense." Trowa was a little surprised at the good-naturedness of his own reply. 

"Weelllllll..." said Quatre reluctantly, though still with that repressed grin. "When it comes to things about Duo..." He pulled a box from the freezer and turned toward the microwave. 

"You're probably right about that," Trowa agreed gravely, though in actuality he felt lighter at the moment than he had in longer than he could remember. 

Presently, as he set about readying whatever they were eating this evening, Quatre asked, "So what kinds of notes are you making?" 

This was something Trowa could talk about more easily. "I'd like to produce something comprehensive," he explained. "A number of magical guides have been written in the past, but most of them are either too general or only focus specifically on a narrow category." At Quatre's nod of understanding he went on, "So I'm looking through existing books on magic and noting down what areas they're lacking in. And where they're incorrect," he added. "They often are." 

"But you know better, huh?" 

"You'll have to take my word that I'm not boasting. With the artifact, I am extremely powerful, which allows me to see the truth about many aspects of magic others can't." 

Quatre turned his smile on Trowa as he moved to gather dishes. It was such a remarkable smile... it seemed to have its own gravitational pull. "I believe you," he assured Trowa. Then thoughtfully he added, "Hey, are there schools for magic?" 

"I've never heard of any, but I've never looked." 

"Wouldn't it be fun to start one?" Quatre's tone was a mixture of dreaminess and enthusiasm. "You could be the headmaster and I could be your squib caretaker." 

It wasn't even close to the first time Quatre had made some statement that was clearly a reference to something out in the ever-changing world with which Trowa was totally unfamiliar. Typically when people said things like that, Trowa simply ignored them, as the effort to find out what they were talking about was rarely equal to the satisfaction of knowing... but all of a sudden he felt that, for some reason, he wanted to know what Quatre meant. Unprecedented, but there it was. So he asked. 

Quatre turned toward Trowa again, looking amused and contemplative. "I'm not really surprised you don't know," he said. He started handing dishes over, which constituted an unspoken command to help set the table. "You'll probably find it pretty funny, actually." He lifted their two plates, which were now full of corn and potatoes. "I'll tell you while we eat."


	92. Plastic Part 42

Apparently Heero's psychic field was four feet, ten and a half inches wide on all sides; and apparently that inch and a half off the estimate was due to the fact that he had a certain innate level of control over his area of psychic influence. Among other things, Trowa had explained that untrained magic manifested differently in everyone, depending on personality, and remarked without offering any attempt at interpretation that Heero's psychic field was simultaneously more withdrawn and more heavily-concentrated than it would have been if he hadn't had magical ability. None of this information was really all that important, though, as the essential goal of keeping Duo as close to him as possible remained unchanged by it. 

They had made it all the way to lunch without anyone remarking on Duo's presence on his desk -- despite at least two people having come to his cubicle -- and that alone, Heero felt, was cause for celebration. Having nothing particularly special for lunch, however, and being completely unable to locate Quatre, the celebration consisted of sitting in his car with the windows down talking to Duo. Which was actually something very much like Heero's idea of a perfect celebration. 

"So I keep forgetting to tell you," Duo was remarking as Heero bit into his sandwich. "If someone hasn't ever picked me up, I can decide whether or not they hear it when I talk." 

"Really?" Heero wondered in some surprise. 

"Yeah. I can move, too, as long as it's nothing too big, and they won't see it," Duo elaborated. "It's all about psychic field connection. So I can talk to you in front of your co-workers, just as long as they don't pick me up. Although," he added in his 'grin' tone, "you probably shouldn't answer anything I say in front of anyone." 

"Yes, I..." Heero shook his head with a sardonic smile. "I figured that much out." After dealing with another bite of sandwich he went on, "Well, this is good to know." 

"I know! I don't know why I kept forgetting." 

"You were probably hoping to startle me out of my wits by announcing it in the middle of a conversation with three other people." 

Duo made an insulted noise. "Would I do that to you?" 

Heero gave him a skeptical look, but what he said was, "I like to think not." 

With a chuckle, Duo changed the subject. "Well, so far it looks like you've got about the most boring job in the world." 

"Maybe... but I do make fifty-five thousand a year," Heero shrugged. 

"God!" If Duo had been human, this exclamation would undoubtedly have been accompanied by his sitting up abruptly straight from a slouch in the passenger seat. "Do you know what _I_ made at _my_ last job?" 

"I can't even begin to guess." 

"Twenty dollars a week!" 

"What did things cost back then, though?" Heero wondered reasonably. 

He didn't know what he was asking; he had no idea that such a casual, innocent question could lead to his being late back from lunch. But apparently changing economic conditions and inflation were extremely interesting. Either that or Duo was. In any case, Heero didn't even think about the time until a figure appeared outside the car and a blonde head bent down to grin at him through the window and interrupt what he was saying with, "Afraid to go back inside, are we?" 

Heero started slightly at this, glanced at the clock, then back at Quatre. "Speak for yourself," he said, beginning to gather up the soda can and Ziplocs that had been lying between the seats and stuffing them into the bag he used for trash. "Where have _you_ been?" 

"Trowa's house," replied Quatre complacently, "and, yes, I'm late too." 

"Just Trowa's house?" Duo wondered as Heero reached past him to close the passenger side window. "Nowhere exciting today?" 

"Nope," Quatre confirmed. He withdrew from the window to allow its closing, then stepped back as Heero emerged from the car with Duo in his hand. "So how are you guys doing?" 

"Not too badly," was Heero's cautious answer. He still felt like everything must blow up in his face at any time, and didn't want to jinx it into happening sooner. After locking his door and pocketing his keys, he turned to join Quatre walking into the building. Perhaps, he was reflecting, it would be a good idea in the future not to sit in _this_ parking lot... he'd been so distracted by his conversation with Duo that he'd let Quatre walk right up and hear them. If it had been someone else, someone not in on their little secret, Heero would have had some explaining to do. 

"So nobody's given you hell yet?" Quatre was wondering. "Nobody's tried to steal you, Duo?" 

"I _am_ quite a steal," Duo admitted in a tone of facetious arrogance. "But I don't think anyone's even noticed me yet." 

"Was it just me," Heero remarked conversationally to Quatre, "or did he sound _disappointed_ when he said that?" 

"Hey, you'd be disappointed too," protested Duo, "if you looked this fabulous and then people didn't notice." 

"I think you've just been insulted, Heero," Quatre said. 

"Who says he was talking to me?" was Heero's deadpan retort. 

In a very serious tone Duo reassured them, "I think _both_ of you look extra-special super-fabulous." 

Quatre laughed. Heero rolled his eyes. And after this, following a brief confirmation of their NCAA Championship plans for that evening, it was time for them to go their separate ways. 

Heero had made a place for Duo on his desk between the "This _is_ my smiley face" coffee cup in which he kept pens and the calendar that provided a tired Happy Bunny statement for every day of the year (both gifts), and this left the doll visible in the corner of his eye when he faced his computer. He liked that, but tried to remind himself not to get too used to it. It was far too easy to objectify Duo when Duo was, in fact, an object, but Duo wouldn't be in this state forever. 

"So what's on the work menu for this afternoon?" Duo wondered once they were both settled. 

After telling him about the San Jose office that was testing a new sales program the company was working on alongside a software developer, Heero explained, "As Sales Coordinator, I get to work with the transactions made in this new system to see how they integrate with our existing programs. I'm going to take a look at what they did this morning." 

"Oh, wow," remarked Duo. "That sounds really, um..." He paused as if searching for the right word, but never actually said it. For at that moment someone approached Heero's cubicle from the sales floor. 

It was Sylvia. "Heero," she began before she even reached him, "you remember the Arons thing from, like, 08? I _know_ it went through; I was _there_; but for some reason I just _cannot_ find it... anywhere... in... the... Is that a Ken doll?" 

"It's got a double 'a,'" Heero said, utterly ignoring the spoken question and answering the one she hadn't completed. "A-_a_-r-o-n-s." 

"Oh, that explains..." She shook her head as if to get rid of something stuck to it, and her ponytail bounced vigorously from side to side. "Seriously, Heero, why do you have a Ken doll on your desk?" 

Heero looked over at Duo, whose stiff little grin, he thought, was a touch wider than usual. "Because I feel like it," he said stonily. 

"Okaaaay..." She was obviously stifling laughter as she turned to walk away without thanking him for the information. 

Why had he said that? He'd had an excuse all ready -- not a very good one, probably, but better than _"Because I feel like it"_ \-- but somehow found himself unable to use it. Well, the problem was that her tone had been just a little teasing, in addition to innocently curious, so Heero had gotten defensive. The list of people from whom he accepted teasing was incredibly short. 

"Very smooth," Duo remarked. And how had _he_ gotten onto the list so quickly? It had taken Relena, Heero's own _sister_, thirteen years. 

"Oh, shut up," Heero replied, entirely without malice.


	93. Plastic Part 43

Duo saw now what it was that Heero had been afraid of, though the flood of attention and Heero's reaction to it, after the blonde woman had left and undoubtedly told everyone in the world what she'd discovered, was a little different than what Duo had expected. 

The first one's excuse was something business-related, but she dropped it almost immediately when Heero pointed out that she'd asked him precisely the same question before lunch. "OK," she confessed, "I just came to see if Sylvia was lying or what. You really _do_ have a Ken doll on your desk!" 

Heero just stared at her, expressionless, and she didn't seem to have the nerve to formulate an actual question. She just looked down at Duo, giggling, for several moments, then retreated. 

"I thought you were going to present some reasonable excuse," Duo said as he watched her disappear from his view. 

"Maybe," replied Heero darkly and cryptically. 

The second curious co-worker, not half an hour later, was a pretty, pale lady with glossy black hair the style of which reminded Duo a bit of Trowa's. She came and leaned against the edge of the cubicle wall, looking in at Duo silently with a mysterious little smile. Her gaze might almost have been called 'calculating' if not for the amusement in it. 

"This one's kinda starting to creep me out," Duo confessed after a minute or so of her staring and Heero stubbornly ignoring her. 

Heero started a little; it _was_ the first practical reminder that Duo could talk to him in front of people, after all. But then he turned to face the woman abruptly and said, "Yes?" somewhat snappishly. 

"It's interesting what the contents of someone's desk say about them, isn't it?" she mused. "It's like a little biography." 

"Are you on the clock?" 

"Nope." 

"Then you shouldn't be on the floor." 

"Yes," she conceded, "you're probably right." And she continued to stare impudently at Duo. Finally she asked casually, "So is it a character from something?" 

"He's--" Heero began, evidently before he could stop himself, and then stopped himself. "Break room," he commanded. 

She raised a finely-penciled eyebrow. "OK, OK," she said, and sauntered off. 

"Weren't you going to tell people I was a present or something?" Duo wondered idly. 

"Yes," Heero sighed, "but..." 

Duo waited, but the explanation didn't come. Heero had gone back to his computer with a closed-off expression, and Duo thought he could see why the co-workers were a little hesitant to ask him at least certain questions. What he still couldn't quite see was Heero's reluctance to answer. 

The third woman to appear was already giggling as she entered the cubicle, and this, Duo thought, accounted for the set of Heero's jaw as he turned to face her. 

"Hee hee, he's so cute!" she was saying. "Look at his little shoes!" 

Heero did not reply, only looked doom. Duo had the feeling that the woman's original intention had been to reach out and pick him up, but under Heero's malignant eye she kept her hands to herself. She did ask, however, "What's his name?" 

Heero continued to stare at her for a long moment, then finally said, "Did you have some work-related question, Carol?" 

Carol giggled again and bounced away. 

"Heero, I don't think it would kill you to tell them _some_ of these things," Duo grinned once she was gone. 

"It's none of their business," Heero muttered. 

"Yeah, but you being mysterious about it isn't going to make them _less_ curious." Really, Duo was more amused than anything else to find that Heero seemed to consider these innocent questions _too personal_ to be answered despite the fact that he'd come specifically ready to answer them. 

After muttering something else unintelligible, Heero went back to what he'd been doing. 

Duo was getting the impression that, whatever else 'Sales Coordinator' implied, Heero was the go-to guy for the entire sales team, however big that was. Evidently he knew everything that went on in this department throughout the whole Pacific Division (whatever that was), and his computer was like an all-knowing oracle's pool: an endless supply of information from which any question could be answered if Heero didn't already know off the top of his head. 

Thus it was no surprise, when someone approached him asking something largely incomprehensible about 'the deal with Tri-Bluestein,' that Heero knew exactly where to look for the answer and found it in about ten seconds. But Duo watched this time with greater attention than he had when people had asked Heero things this morning; he was more interested now in Heero's relationship with his co-workers. 

Provided there was actual business involved in the exchange, not just people coming to giggle at Duo, Heero wasn't exactly _rude_, but he certainly didn't waste words. His manner was withdrawn, professional in a cool sort of way, and utterly impersonal. Duo was under the impression that Heero had worked here for three or four years and had been in his current position for at least two, but evidently this didn't translate into any sort of closeness whatsoever with his co-workers. 

Slowly it was beginning to dawn on Duo that perhaps the Heero he'd been getting to know, the one he so enjoyed messing around, the one he discussed Oz books with, the one that had played selections from a dozen CD's for him in an attempt to expand his musical horizons, the one that had agreed to this month of silliness for his sake, was not necessarily the Heero the rest of the world got to see. _This_ Heero was more like the one Duo had met at first and that had emerged again to some extent at his parents' house: the quiet, suspicious one that was obviously much happier to avoid people than deal with them. 

This revelation couldn't be anything but pleasant. He'd been worrying about Heero's walls without realizing he was past at least one of them already. And while he definitely wasn't complaining, he wondered how on earth it had happened. 

"Heero!" By the sound of it, here was another encroacher curious and not legitimate. She _did_ have an excuse, though. "Can you email me the information on the convention in San Francisco? You have it, don't you?" 

"Didn't Dorothy give it to you already?" Heero asked suspiciously, though he'd already started getting it for her even as he said this. 

"I lost it," she said cheerfully. 

"You did not," replied Duo equally cheerfully, although she couldn't hear him. 

She _could_, however, take advantage of Heero's distraction to turn on Duo. "He doesn't look like an actual Ken," she remarked without preamble. "I had, like, four Kens when I was a kid; they never made them with that much hair even when they _had_ actual hair." 

"She's right," Duo acknowledged. 

Heero had nothing to add, and didn't seem to be paying attention. As the woman reached down toward Duo, however, Heero's hand was suddenly there, blocking her access to the doll, without seeming to have moved. And finally he volunteered some information. "He's a collector's item." 

"Special edition," Duo advised. 

"Special edition," Heero repeated flatly. 

"Oh," said the woman, withdrawing her hand. "So why do you--" 

"I sent your information," interrupted Heero in a tone of finality. 

"OK, thanks," replied she, making an impressively businesslike recovery. And she turned on her heel and departed. 

Duo watched her thoughtfully, then said, "I've got an idea." 

"Yeah?" said Heero. 

"Well, that gal earlier with the eyeshadow--" 

"Noin," Heero interjected, without having to ask for any more details of appearance than that. 

"Well, _Noin_," Duo went on, "asked if I was a character from something. So, what if I was? Wouldn't it be easier to put me in, like, a Star Trek uniform or something and just let everyone think you're a big Star Trek fan? It'd be an easy explanation, if you felt like explaining at all... and if you didn't, well, it'd still be kinda obvious on its own, because I'd be sitting here in a Star Trek uniform." 

Heero raised an eyebrow. "I think you just want a Star Trek uniform." 

"Um, maybe," Duo admitted. 

"Anyway, don't you think it's a bit late for that?" Heero was frowning pensively now, obviously giving the suggestion more thought than he had a moment before. "You've been sitting here all day." 

"Well, there has to be _someone_ who hasn't come to stare at me yet... besides, it's not like you've answered _anyone's_ questions..." 

Heero continued to look thoughtful, but he didn't say anything for several moments. Finally he admitted, "It's not a bad idea..." He turned back to his computer. "Let's see what we can find..."


	94. Plastic Part 43

He was trying to avoid admitting, to himself or anyone else, that the first workday of the curse-breaking month hadn't been nearly as bad as he'd been expecting. Which didn't mean it hadn't been bad, but he hadn't been ready to pull his hair out at any point during the day, and -- more importantly -- he'd gotten by without sending a single panicked email to Quatre. Not only that, but he'd been able to enjoy the basketball game after work without (much) brooding over how the day had gone or anxiety for tomorrow. 

And then tomorrow had come. 

It was 8:03. He was barely settled in his cubicle, had barely arranged Duo in the same spot as yesterday, and had barely started fielding questions about the other contents of his desk -- just the questions Duo hadn't gotten around to yesterday, for one reason or another -- when it started. 

"Heero, want a donut?" 

"Not on the floor," he answered promptly. "You know food isn't allowed out here." 

"You are such a hard-ass," Duo laughed. "Besides, you know she's only here to see me." 

Heero _did_ know it. If Sally's real intention had simply been to offer him a donut before everyone else ate them all, she would merely have peeked over the wall of the cubicle, not come walking in and right up to his chair. 

"Are you sure?" she asked. "It's a cake donut..." Some of his co-workers were more perceptive than others, but the number of them that knew of his love for cake donuts could probably be counted on one hand; he might even have said on one finger if it weren't for Sally's propensity to tell Noin _everything_. 

Heero wavered. 

"Dooo iiit," Duo urged. 

Repressing a smile, Heero steeled himself. "Not on the floor," he reiterated. "But thank you." 

"No problem. I'll put it under a napkin in the break room and maybe nobody will see it." She was bending down to look at Duo now. "How come he doesn't have any socks?" 

He'd expected some sort of remark or question about Duo eventually, but this one came so smoothly at the end of her statement about the donut, and was so unexpectedly specific, it actually startled him into answering. "I have no idea." At least he did manage to cut his response short before blurting out that socks hadn't been included with the outfit and he'd never really thought about it until now. 

"It's OK," Duo reassured him. "I don't need 'em." 

Sally peered at Duo even more closely. "I think he'd look better in purple," she said at last. 

Heero was ready this time, and was able to stifle his _"So do I"_ without too much effort. 

"Or a different red," was Duo's comment. "This one's kinda blah." 

"Especially if he's a gay thing," Sally added as she stood straight again. "Purple would be more appropriate, don't you think?" And then she walked away. 

Left staring alternately after her and back at Duo, the latter's surprised laughter in his ears, Heero couldn't help remembering his mother's comment, _"Relena's car would be much more appropriate for you, don't you think?"_ He was reflecting on how strange was a world in which he could be given veiled negative hints about his sexuality on Sunday evening and then commended on an apparent display of it on Tuesday morning in such similar words. 

Eventually Duo stopped laughing and said, "So that's what they're thinking: that I'm some kind of gay symbol! Isn't it great to not tell people anything and then see what they come up with on their own?" 

Finally Heero smiled. "I doubt that's something _you_ do very often." 

"Yeah, well..." 

"And it isn't a bad idea..." Heero went on musingly. Everyone on the sales floor knew he was gay -- actually they all thought he was dating Quatre -- though he was damned if he knew _how_ they all knew, since he'd certainly never specifically told any of them. And since they were aware of his disinclination to talk about it, it should make sense to them that he didn't feel like talking about the new pride symbol on his desk either (as contradictory as it seemed to have a pride symbol you didn't want to talk about). 

"But when I have my _Starfleet uniform_..." said Duo gleefully, giving the words the emphasis of extreme satisfaction. 

Heero's smile widened. He didn't really believe that a Star Trek outfit on Duo was going to change anything, make Duo less conspicuous or help him look less like the property of a very gay man; nor did Heero think he could pass himself off as enough of a nerd for it to give the desired unspoken indication to his co-workers as to why Duo was there in the first place. The fact was, there weren't many gifts he could buy for Duo at this point, and he'd jumped on the chance to get him this one the moment it was obvious Duo wanted it. He'd even paid extra for overnight shipping. 

"Knock-knock!" Heero absolutely hated it when people said that instead of just knocking, door or no door, but there wasn't much to be done about it. In came one of the IT guys from downstairs, moving with that confident restlessness all IT people had when they were moving at all. "Hey, 3-9-1, you know the whole building's talking about you?" 

"I could have guessed," said Heero through gritted teeth. 

The IT guy -- whose name Heero could not remember and whose badge currently sat at an impossible-to-read angle -- went for Duo so fast that Heero didn't have a chance to stop him. He snatched the doll up and began turning him over and around, examining him, with an impudent grin on his face. "It's like you're that guy from _The Simpsons_. Um, what's his name... That guy who's gay for his boss and has all the Malibu Barbie dolls..." 

It so happened that Heero knew exactly what he was referring to, but wasn't about to offer any assistance. 

"Hey, let me take this downstairs and show the--" 

At this, Heero was out of his chair so fast it crashed into the desk behind him. "_No._" And he'd reached out and taken Duo back, pulling him protectively close to his chest in a tight grip, before the IT guy could even blink. The guy stared at him, and Heero tried hard not to blush at the thought of how utterly bizarre and childish that must have looked. And he was drawing a blank trying to come up with anything to say that might explain it. 

Finally the guy forced a laugh, and said, "You've lost it, man," as he turned to leave. 

Heero let out a long, frustrated breath once he was again alone with Duo, and reflected that it wasn't even nine o'clock yet. How was he going to get through the day if this sort of thing kept happening? How was he going to get through the _month_? 

"Those are some quick reflexes you've got, 3-9-1," Duo remarked. 

Heero sighed. 

"What does it mean?" 

"Oh, IT people live in their own little world... they think it's cool to call people by their workstation numbers." 

"Riiiiight." Duo's tone clearly indicated that he'd understood essentially none of Heero's statement. 

With a little snorting laugh, Heero smoothed out Duo's rumpled hair and clothing and replaced him between the coffee cup and calendar. 

"Seriously, though," Duo went on, "that was well done. You were like _whoosh_ and totally rescued me from that guy." 

Fighting off a blush for the second time in five minutes, Heero mumbled, "Well, I couldn't just let him walk away with you." 

"My Heero!" said Duo cooingly, forcing Heero to turn hastily toward his computer because there really was no stopping _that_ blush.


	95. Plastic Part 45

Duo thought he could spend many an hour dwelling exclusively on the idea that he was Heero's gay symbol without getting tired of it. However, since there were other things going on that he wanted to pay attention to, he saved that dwelling for later; it would be a good way to occupy time tonight when Heero was asleep. 

For now, he was starting to wonder just how many people worked in this building, and how many of them were willing to abandon their work completely in order to come interrupt someone else's just because they'd heard he had a doll on his desk. Of course, Duo reflected, it probably had more to do with Heero's reputation than the mere presence of a doll... but, seriously, this level of general interest was weird and a little scary. 

The worst one of the day came just before lunch. She didn't greet Heero the way most of them did; she didn't bring an excuse; she didn't ask questions or hesitate or anything; she only bounded into the cubicle, making an enthusiastic high-pitched noise of some sort, and caught Duo up in both hands. 

"He's so cute!! Carol said he was so cute, and he _is_!!" 

Duo hadn't even gotten a good look at her before he found himself suddenly becoming acquainted with her chest in a manner that really reinforced the size differences between his body and an actual human's. Suddenly he couldn't see a thing, and there was a substantially muffled quality to the woman's next exclamation. "I have to show him to Stephanie!" And then she was running. 

Panic gripped Duo, all the worse for his being completely unable to do anything about it. Well, sure, he could talk to her, try to get her to stop, but it might already be too late. Where was she taking him? Where was Heero? Had he been able to follow, or was the woman too quick? Duo tried desperately to remind himself that they were only a few days into the month, that starting over at this point wouldn't kill them... but of its effect on morale -- particularly Heero's -- he didn't dare think. 

"Hilde!" This was definitely Heero's voice, reassuringly close, though muffled like everything else. He did _not_ sound happy. 

"Oh, my god, look!" cried the woman Duo guessed was called Hilde. "This is that doll of Heero's!" And Duo emerged at last from the valley in which he'd been clasped to find himself thrust into the face of another woman, presumably Stephanie, who looked surprised. 

"Seriously? I thought that was just a joke!" 

And Heero was there. As in at least one instance yesterday, he seemed simply to appear, without having moved, to snatch Duo out of the hands of the enemy with adrenaline speed. "Hilde!" he snapped. "You can't just take things off of people's desks!" 

Hilde made a disappointed sound. Duo would have liked to look at her, but he found himself once again pressed, face-first, up against someone's chest. He didn't mind this one so much, though; in fact, in the midst of agitation and confusion, having Heero pull him against his chest was pretty much optimal. If only he could really _feel_ it, instead of just coldly knowing it was happening. 

"Well, at least let Stephanie see him!" demanded Hilde, evidently completely unfazed by Heero's dire tone. 

Heero took a breath deep enough to move Duo's entire body, slowly relaxed (though he did not release) his two-handed grip, and allowed Duo some distance away from him. Duo didn't dare turn his head, so he could only see the two women out of the corners of his eyes. One of them -- Hilde, he thought -- seemed to be making some kind of excited gesture, while the other -- Stephanie, perhaps less unfazed than her friend -- was sitting quite still. 

"Isn't he _so_ cute?" Hilde prompted. "I love his hair!" 

"Yeah, he's cute," said Stephanie dutifully. Duo definitely thought her lack of enthusiasm was due to Heero's manner, and this was totally understandable; Heero was now pushing past Hilde, heading away from the two women without saying anything else, and his movements, as far as Duo was able to read them from his current position, could be described as 'stalking.' 

He didn't dare say anything while he didn't know whether or not Hilde might be following, and it was a few moments before he noticed that Heero didn't seem to be returning to his cubicle. Rather, they were now in the hallway outside of the big room Heero referred to as the 'sales floor.' Heero stepped briefly into the break room before making his way, if Duo was not mistaken, toward the elevators. And not until they were inside one of the latter, thoroughly alone, did Heero's tension fade. He slumped back against the railing on the wall and dragged one hand over his eyes with a ragged sigh. 

"Did she..." Duo began somewhat tremulously, not certain he wanted to know. 

Evidently aware of exactly what Duo was trying to ask, "No, I got after her in time," Heero said, sounding tired. "But if that happens again I swear my heart's going to stop." 

"Mine would still be racing if I had one," replied Duo. "I thought for sure we were going to have to start the month over." 

"This has got to calm down once everyone's come around and had a look at you," Heero said desperately. "They can't all keep doing this forever." 

"You _could_ put me in a drawer or something." 

"No," Heero said quietly as the elevator doors opened and he stepped out on the ground floor. He checked for anyone nearby that might observe him talking apparently to himself before he went on, "I'm not doing that to you unless I absolutely have to." 

That heart Duo had just mentioned as nonexistent was warmed by this. "Well," he said reassuringly, "remember, if it comes to that, that I'm totally used to it. Add it all up and I've probably spent a total of twenty years or something inside toyboxes with nothing to do but think about how boring it is." 

"God, Duo..." Heero sounded horrified. "That is so--" 

Duo broke in hastily, "Hey, I didn't mean to play a pity card there. I mean, yeah, it sucked, but it's nothing you need to worry about. Hell, you're the one who's going to _fix_ all of that. If you want to pity me," he added thoughtfully, "do it because boobs have been ruined for me forever." 

Heero was walking through the parking lot now, and forbore from responding just then as he passed somebody coming the other direction. Once he was approaching his own car, however, and nobody else was in earshot, he said, "OK, now, boobs _what_?" 

"Boobs have been ruined for me forever," Duo repeated. "That was _traumatic_, man. She pushed me up between those things, and everything went dark, and I couldn't hear properly, and I didn't know where you were... I'll never be able to look at a woman's chest again!" 

"Um, Duo..." Heero seemed torn between laughter and further horror as he set Duo down in the passenger seat. "You _are_ gay, aren't you?" 

"Yes! But that doesn't mean I can't -- _couldn't_ appreciate nice breasts. Before. Before today. But never again." And he made a shuddering sort of noise. 

Now Heero really did laugh, though the sound was still somewhat baffled. He'd turned on the car, and was starting to back out of the parking space. "I probably shouldn't be driving," he muttered a moment later, "since my wallet's in my briefcase inside..." 

"You _did_ kinda bat-out-of-hell out of there," Duo grinned. 

"And I'm not going back until two," was Heero's grim reply. Which, given that it wasn't even one yet, meant he would be taking an over-long lunch for the second day in a row. This didn't really bother Duo, of course, but he did hope Heero wouldn't get in trouble because of it. 

"And then I think you're going to _have_ to put me somewhere other than where I've been sitting," the doll said. "It's too easy for people to get at me there." 

Heero nodded. 

Evidently wherever he was driving wasn't too far from the office parking lot, for he was already bringing the old car to a stop and turning off the engine. Then he rolled down the windows, as he had yesterday, and picked up the lunch-cooler-bag-thing he'd seized from the break room fridge. 

"Where are we?" Duo asked. 

"Shopping center parking lot," Heero replied. "The far end where nobody parks except when things get really busy." He'd extracted his sandwich and Coke and little bag of chips. "We should be safe here." 

"Aww, Heero, did you want to be _alone_ with me?" 

"Yes!" 

So startled was Duo by the intensity of Heero's answer that he couldn't think of any clever reply. He knew the desire to be away from the curious co-workers probably had a good deal more to do with how emphatically Heero had spoken than any desire to spend time alone with Duo (something he actually did quite a lot); but even so, it was exactly what Duo liked to hear, and might have made him blush a little if he'd had circulation and flesh and all that. 

He wondered suddenly why he didn't just _tell_ Heero that he liked him, instead of giving him stupid lines all the time. Heero _seemed_ totally unaware of him in that sense, responded only neutrally to his flirting, and basically treated him like an unfortunate friend... but Heero was so private about so many things, how could Duo be _sure_? Heero was a nice guy; he would let him down easy if that was what it came to. What was the worst that could happen? 

OK, well, the worst that could happen was that Heero really was every bit as disinterested as he seemed, the confession would make the necessity of keeping Duo within five feet of him incredibly awkward, and Duo might actually lose his chance at becoming human. And that... that was a pretty bad 'worst.' 

But the moment the curse was broken... 

For right now, though, he thought something perfectly innocuous to talk about was in order. So, cheerfully, he began relating a dumb story about the Chevrolet 490 Trowa had bought back in the day, and speculating about what had happened to the thing, while Heero sat in the driver's seat and ate his lunch in silence.


	96. Plastic Part 46

  


When Quatre went looking for Heero on the sales floor at lunch time, he found Heero's jacket draped over the chair in his cubicle and Heero's briefcase still down by the desk, but no Heero to go with them. The computer had already gone to sleep, though, and Quatre looked around, puzzled, for a few moments. 

"He left about twenty minutes ago," someone said from behind him. The sharply polite tone with its touch of judgmental amusement identified the speaker, even before Quatre turned, as the sales manager Dorothy. "I'm not sure what you two did on your week off," she went on, "but it must have been distracting." 

If _that_ wasn't ironic, Quatre didn't know what was. Still, he'd only come to find Heero in the first place to tell him that he was again going to Trowa's house for lunch/dinner, so this didn't exactly throw a wrench in his plans. He thanked Dorothy for her information and left. 

As he drove, he spent a few minutes wondering what could have caused Heero to leave so early for lunch without his things. He hoped nothing had gone wrong. He might have considered calling him to find out, but he'd seen a cell phone lying on the desk as well, and speculated that his friend wanted to be out of reach of all human communication at the moment. Besides, the mild concern Quatre felt at these slightly mysterious events couldn't keep full hold of his mind when he was on his way to see Trowa. Because Dorothy had been right -- about him, at least: what he'd done over his week off _had_ left him distracted. 

He did reflect, though, as he let himself into Heero's apartment, that it was a little strange to be doing so under these circumstances. 

There was no sound from any of the other dark rooms as he came into Trowa's entryway, so, in keeping with that, he moved as quietly as he could in closing the front door and heading into the study. And he found, in the light of the lamp Trowa used so exclusively in this room, exactly what he'd been expecting. 

It wasn't the first time he had come in here to find Trowa asleep as if he'd never slept before and would never have another chance. This time, Trowa was slumped forward on the table in a position that looked excessively uncomfortable, his head pillowed on a large, unreadable book. It reminded Quatre of Heero a few nights ago... except that Heero, of course, hadn't made Quatre want to reach out and touch. 

Trowa looked so very tired and pathetic asleep there like that, as if he simply hadn't been able to keep his eyes open or his body upright one moment longer, his skin slightly grey and almost glowing as if he were feverish -- although when Quatre, unable to resist, put out a hand and ran his fingertips lightly across Trowa's cheek, he felt nothing more than regular human warmth. 

The temptation came over Quatre all at once in a sort of heart-pounding shiver when Trowa did not stir even in the slightest at his touch, and he obeyed the impulse almost without thinking: bending, he leaned down and pressed his lips to the pale cheek, feeling the soft skin give just slightly under his kiss and taking in the more pronounced scent of old books that did not come solely from the actual old books in the room. And suddenly he found himself looking into a bright half moon framed by thick, beautiful lashes that had just parted unexpectedly. 

Quatre stood straight and stepped back in a quick, startled movement, blushing furiously. He shouldn't have done that. Why had he done that? Why did Trowa have to look so damned irresistible? "I'm sorry," he said, almost without meaning to. 

Trowa was sitting up slowly -- evidently the position in which he'd been sleeping had left him stiff and sore -- staring at Quatre. Finally, with a gesture to his eyes, he said in a tone of slightly bitter concession, "They are rather horrifying, aren't they?" 

As he realized what Trowa thought was the reason for his abrupt retreat, Quatre felt his own eyes widen. "Oh, no!" he said in an embarrassingly impassioned tone. "No! Your eyes don't bother me at all. It's just, I... I shouldn't have done that." 

The expression on Trowa's face did not change, and his tone was completely blank as he asked, "Why?" 

It seemed an almost farcical question, and Quatre was for a moment at a loss for what to say, despite the answer being perfectly straightforward. Finally, however, he did manage it: "Well, it's a little rude to kiss someone else's boyfriend." And if his blush intensified as he said this, at least it was only a very little. 

"I'm no one else's boyfriend." Trowa made the remark flatly, but Quatre thought his demeanor also suddenly held a touch of curiosity and perhaps relief -- on which Quatre might have dwelt with some pleasure if the information he'd just received hadn't abruptly swallowed up the entire world. 

A stammered, "But... Duo..." was all he could manage. 

A faint smile twisted across Trowa's face. "Duo and I were never lovers." He turned his eyes toward the book he'd been asleep on a minute before. "We _were_ in love, back then, I think... I think we were _both_ using that woman to make each other jealous, and that argument that started all of this... was not really about her at all." He was toying absently with the book's pages, seemingly looking far past it with unfocused eyes. "We accused each other of not caring, but neither of us had ever admitted that we _did_ care..." 

"And..." Quatre felt as if he'd stopped breathing. "And do you still care?" 

"Not anymore. Of course I still love him," Trowa added, pointlessly flipping through the book he wasn't actually looking at, "but not in that way." He said it with all the conviction a level, unemotional tone could bring, but Quatre wasn't sure he believed it. After all, Trowa had gone all these decades without being able to let go of his guilt and misery over a situation that was not entirely his fault... How likely was it that he'd been able to let go of this? 

"Are you sure?" Quatre asked quietly. 

Abruptly Trowa turned away from the book and the table and looked up at him. His shining eyes were perfectly focused now, the faint moonlight that emanated from them almost piercing with the intensity of the gaze. "Yes, Quatre," he said very seriously, "I'm sure." 

The smoothness of Quatre's subsequent movements somewhat belied the fact that they seemed to take place without any initial cerebral impulse: he stepped forward again, leaned down, ran one hand along each side of Trowa's face and down to his neck so his thumbs could press against Trowa's jaw and lift his head into a better angle, and kissed him. 

Trowa's lips felt simultaneously fuller and more hesitant than Quatre would have expected. He certainly responded -- in fact, he snaked an arm up and around Quatre's neck, as if to make absolutely certain he stayed where he was, almost immediately -- but he seemed very unsure of himself. Abstractly, in one of the few small corners of his consciousness that weren't on fire, Quatre speculated that Trowa hadn't kissed anyone in almost a century, and had probably largely forgotten how. And there was something about his inexpert willingness to try it just the same that was overwhelmingly attractive. 

When they finally pulled apart, Quatre felt that the almost gasping breath he immediately drew was possibly the first he'd taken since he'd come into this room. He wasn't sure how much of Trowa's motion to stand was Trowa's idea and how much was Quatre tugging at him; and he wondered, as he wrapped his arms around Trowa's neck and pressed up against him, whether Trowa could feel how rapidly his heart was beating. 

"I don't know why you'd want--" Trowa began in a whisper. 

Sensing the self-deprecating nature of the remark even before it was completed, Quatre cut him off somewhat impatiently. "Well, if you'd rather I didn't..." 

"No," said Trowa almost fiercely. And as his lips sank to meet Quatre's again he repeated, "No." 

There was a feeling of preciousness to this kiss, as if the moment had been dipped in molten gold, and simultaneously a fragility that suggested it was crystal underneath. The movement of Trowa's mouth against Quatre's held a hesitant, almost tremulous quality, as if he might break away and flee at any time, and yet the arms that had slipped around Quatre's back clutched determinedly at him; and the whole experience was far greater than the sum of the parts _doesn't know what he's doing_ and _doing it anyway_. 

Eventually they drew away again, if only by a few inches, and Quatre stood staring into Trowa's moon eyes for several long moments, feeling the warmth of Trowa's wiry body against his and breathing in time with him. His heart was still pounding insanely fast in the midst of a tingling heat throughout his chest, and he felt simultaneously giddy and awed. He definitely hadn't expected this to happen today -- to be honest, he didn't know if he'd expected this to happen _at all_ \-- and, despite the fact that it had been brought about mostly by his own actions, he felt a bit blindsided. 

"Quatre..." Trowa said, almost under his breath, as if he were tasting rather than speaking the name -- or perhaps tasting the concept of Quatre's nearness. He went on quietly, and although Quatre thought he meant the words as a warning, his tone was almost childlike in the simplicity of its concern. "I don't know if I know how to... how to not be alone..." 

The rush of affectionate pity Quatre felt at this statement increased the pressure in his chest and impelled him to pull Trowa close to him once more, to reassure him in almost the same near-whisper, "I'll help you." 

And though Trowa seemed to have nothing else to say at the moment, his arms tightened again around Quatre's back as if they would never let go.


	97. Plastic Part 47

Trowa felt as if he'd been pushed unexpectedly into a deep pool, then just as unexpectedly found the water quite comfortably hot. He was off-balance, disoriented, perhaps drowning... and yet disinclined to struggle. 

The possibility that he might be attracted to Quatre in such a fashion had never even remotely occurred to him. Only when he'd awakened suddenly to find Quatre's lips pressed to his cheek and Quatre's breath on his skin had he realized, abruptly and shockingly, not only just how much he wanted him, but _that_ he wanted him. 

It should be no surprise, really, that he hadn't noticed until the idea was literally shoved in his face: it had been so long since he'd felt anything of the kind; he'd grown so accustomed to being alone; he'd been so used to considering pleasant social interaction something he'd cast off back when he'd cursed Duo -- even the concept of Quatre as a _friend_ had been difficult to get his head around... and yet it seemed marvelous, bordering on impossible, that any time had passed since meeting Quatre during which Trowa hadn't been conscious of a bone-deep desire to have his companionship in any and every way. 

Quatre usually sat two chairs down from him and talked cheerfully as they ate, but this evening he'd set his place across the table's corner from Trowa, right in the next spot, and at the moment was just looking at him and smiling. Trowa was glad there was currently no call for conversation, as his thoughts were a chaos of contradictory ideas and indecision, none of which he was likely to be able to put into words even if he wanted to. 

Not least among these was the concern he felt at Quatre getting himself into something like this. He'd been perfectly serious, when Quatre had wondered at the space of time Trowa had gone without friends, reminding him what he'd done to his last one: Trowa's friend was not a safe thing to be. To be something more was insane; there was nothing about Trowa that was worth that risk. And this was only one of several reasons he didn't necessarily think this was a good idea, much as he'd realized he wanted it. Yet when he'd tried to give some warning of this, all he'd managed to say was something about his own antisocial nature that Quatre had undoubtedly long since guessed. 

And Quatre's smile was so inviting... 

Trowa had been perfectly disinterested in eating for a very long time, but never in seventy years so much as right now. After Quatre's lips, the taste and texture of food seemed almost offensively bland to Trowa's mouth. He'd felt like he could go on kissing him forever, but Quatre had insisted on dinner. Now Trowa had no idea what he was eating, and could barely even turn his eyes toward it. 

"What are you thinking?" Quatre asked suddenly. 

Seeing no reason not to answer with the truth (if not the _whole_ truth), Trowa said, "What a wonderful smile you have." 

"Thank you," said Quatre, ducking his head slightly and looking momentarily quite pleased. "But you seem awfully serious to be thinking something like that. What _else_ are you thinking?" 

For perhaps the first time, Trowa turned his gaze down toward his plate, sighing. "I just," he said, "don't know if this is a good idea." 

Without needing to ask what 'this' he meant, Quatre inquired quietly, "Why?" 

Trowa opened his mouth to answer, but found he didn't have the words. How could he explain that, among other things, someone like Quatre didn't need to be putting up with all the trouble and unhappiness that must be attendant upon a relationship with someone like Trowa? That someone like Trowa didn't have any right to be making a claim on the thoughts and feelings and time and effort of someone like Quatre? 'I don't deserve you' seemed trite and overly dramatic, and yet how else could he put it? 

"You're afraid you'll hurt me," Quatre supplied quietly at last. 

And there was that too. Trowa nodded. 

Quatre said his name very seriously, and reached out to grasp Trowa's free hand. Trowa looked up into beautiful sober eyes that held his just as tenaciously as Quatre's arms had held him earlier. "I haven't seen everything you've gone through," said Quatre, "but I've seen what it's done to you -- and I don't believe for an instant that you will _ever_ do _anything_ like what you did to Duo ever again. You're an intelligent man who's learned from his mistakes." It had only been moments since his smile had faded and given way to that serious look, but its return was reassuring (as Quatre seemed specifically to intend). "You're not going to turn me into anything." 

"You can't be sure of that." 

"I can't," Quatre agreed levelly, "but I believe it anyway." 

Trowa returned to his tasteless meal without replying, the chaos in his head hardly diminished. He was simultaneously delighted and appalled that Quatre trusted him thus, and none of his other misgivings had been allayed. 

After several moments of silence, Quatre spoke again. "You _are_ willing to try, though, aren't you?" Trowa thought that, despite how confidently he'd phrased the question, there was a touch of concern to his voice that he couldn't hide. 

And right in the face of all his better judgment, Trowa found himself answering, "Yes," before he even realized what he was saying. 

Once it was obvious that each of them had eaten all he was going to -- singularly, Quatre seemed nearly as disinterested in food as Trowa was -- they set about clearing up. Somehow, though, to Trowa's pleased bewilderment, this turned into kissing against the kitchen counter. And Trowa certainly didn't care enough about the cleanliness of his dishes or the state of his dining area to mind neglecting them for this. 

He couldn't begin to think why Quatre was interested in him in any sense, and he couldn't imagine that someone whose only experience in this area had been almost ninety years ago could be in any way enjoyable to kiss... but since Quatre seemed willing, Trowa didn't question. He still didn't really believe this was a good idea, and he was awash with the same guilt that always overcame him the moment he started enjoying something, but he couldn't bring himself to pull away. 

Quatre, he found, was bulkier than he'd expected; he wondered why this should surprise him, when he'd seen Quatre in t-shirts and knew he had well-developed arms at least. There was a firmness, too, to the way those arms held Trowa, not to mention the way Quatre kissed him, a strength and insistence that was also unexpected -- and, again, why this should be, Trowa did not know. Perhaps he'd been viewing Quatre as more fragile than he actually was simply because he was aware of what he was capable of doing to him. 

Then Quatre's hand slid into Trowa's hair, and his tongue teased at Trowa's lips, and all the cold, dark thoughts in Trowa's head began first to blur at the edges and then to fade into something shamefully like contentment. 

He wasn't sure how long Quatre put up with his amateurish kissing, but when the entry clock struck a quarter Quatre pulled away from him somewhat abruptly. "What time was that?" he demanded, startled. Trowa, who definitely hadn't been paying attention, shook his head. Pulling out his cell phone, Quatre checked. "Damn," he whispered. He was smiling ruefully when he looked back up at Trowa, his slightly-parted pink lips just a little swollen and, for the moment, absolutely riveting. "I'm already late. I've got to go." 

Trowa felt the one arm he still had around Quatre's chest stiffen, tightening almost instinctively, and he had to exert actual will power to make it release. To be honest, he didn't think this whole thing was going to last very long, but he also didn't think it was going to end this very same day it had started; there was no reason to hold on desperately to Quatre just yet. Not that he would have any right to do so whenever Quatre _did_ decide to call things off... 

Maybe Quatre sensed some of what Trowa wasn't saying, for he smiled again and said, "I'll come back after work." And then maybe he sensed the absurd pleasure Trowa felt at hearing this, for the smile widened into a grin and he lifted his face to kiss Trowa briefly one last time. Then, as he pulled completely away, he let one hand trail lightly down Trowa's chest before all contact between them ceased. 

Trowa followed him to the entry and watched him smooth out his rumpled shirt, then straighten his tie with one hand while he reached for the doorknob with the other. "See you later," was Quatre's goodbye. And Trowa, almost without knowing what he did, hastily moved up to the door as it closed to look through the little windows and follow Quatre's form with his eyes across Heero's living room and to the next door. 

Once Quatre was totally out of sight, Trowa stepped back and gazed dully around the dark entryway, seeing nothing, waiting for the real guilt to make impact.


	98. Plastic Part 48

Duo felt nothing less than resplendent in his new first officer's uniform, which he hadn't expected to be wearing for at least another couple of days yet. It was so nice of Heero to have had the thing shipped here so quickly, undoubtedly paying extra money to do so... Of course, he'd probably done it primarily out of desire to get more quickly at the excuse it provided, but, even so, Duo appreciated it. He felt like one of those awesome people that went to those awesome convention things in totally accurate costumes. 

So as not to miss anything that was going on around him during the day, he was getting into the habit of putting off his daydreams until Heero was asleep, and now he made a mental note for tonight: think about the (improbable) possibility that his clothing might grow to human size with him when the curse was broken, and he might end up with a full-sized Star Trek uniform he could still wear at that point. 

Heero had been keeping him just to the left of his computer monitor ever since yesterday afternoon, which made Duo impossible for anyone to reach if they didn't want to get right into Heero's personal space. It had done the trick so far: evidently Heero's personal space was quite the no-man's-land to his co-workers. Not terribly surprising, that. Duo's new location also, sadly, greatly reduced his ability to see much of anything besides Heero and certain dustier corners of the cubicle. Heero was, of course, an absolute treat to look at even at the worst of times, but it did make it more difficult to see who was coming and try to guess why. 

The _why_ was still usually 'to stare at Duo,' though most of the latest ones had been smart enough to provide work-related excuses as well -- and to a few, Duo thought, he was just an attraction additional to the assistance they legitimately needed from Heero. And the traffic was slowing, as Heero had hoped it would. By the end of the week, perhaps, things would be business as usual, with only a new eccentricity added to Heero's reputation. 

Mid-morning, yet another woman showed up to bask in Duo's splendor. There was something very eye-catching about this one; he thought at first that it was the pleasantly fat curliness of her red-brown hair, but the line of her nose and the shape of her eyes made him rethink this assessment. He certainly had time to do so, since she was just standing there, very quiet, poised slightly on tip-toe to look over Heero's shoulder. It appeared she didn't necessarily have any desire to talk to Heero, just to see Duo; and, while this would have been easy enough yesterday morning, Duo's new location made it nearly impossible today for her to observe him without alerting Heero. 

The latter seemed, as he sometimes did, to be very deliberately ignoring her. There was a difference to the way his eyes moved across the computer screen, Duo noticed, when he was only pretending to work. Evidently he was planning to see if she'd go silently away if he had nothing to say; maybe this would be the first gawping co-worker encounter to end without a conversation. 

This possibility was negated by Duo himself, however, when, a few moments later, he realized what it was about the woman's face that was so interesting. "She looks like Trowa!" he said in some surprise. 

Hearing this, Heero sat up a little straighter in his chair, pushing it back away from the desk slightly and causing the woman to start. Then he swiveled around to face her as she took a step away from him. By now his tone was more resigned than impatient in asking, "Did you need something?" 

"No," she replied, giving a smile whose irritation was clearly not aimed at Heero, "and I didn't mean to bother you. I wasn't going to come over, but they--" she made a somewhat impatient gesture toward the rest of the sales floor-- "wouldn't stop bugging me until I came to see this doll of yours." Now that Heero had moved, the woman was evidently able to get a more satisfactory look at Duo. She gave a decisive nod. "So now I've seen it. I'll get out of your way." 

Heero didn't respond verbally, only nodded as well and turned back to his computer. And the woman, true to her word, left without asking him any questions. Duo watched her go, then looked at Heero again. Observing narrowed eyes and lowered brows, Duo remarked, "I'd have thought you'd be happier about that one. It looked like she wouldn't even have said anything if you hadn't." 

Heero's lips tightened before he opened them to answer. "If even the people who _don't_ want to come over here and look are being pressured into doing it, we've still got a ways to go." 

"OK, you're probably right about that," Duo admitted. "But don't you think she looks like Trowa?" 

"Not particularly," replied Heero shortly. 

Duo mused on. "Well, I guess I know his face better than you do. I think his nose is pretty much the same as hers... she's rocking it, too; you don't see many women who look that good with a nose that strong." Heero offered no opinion, so after a moment Duo continued, "Something about the eyes, too... I think it was in the outside corners, or..." But without having her in front of him, he couldn't quite articulate the similarity. 

Still Heero said nothing. 

"You really didn't see it?" Duo pressed on. "I wonder if they're related..." 

Finally Heero volunteered something. "Well, her name is Catharine Barton," he said without removing his gaze from his computer monitor or slowing whatever he was typing, "if that helps." 

"What!? Really?? Barton??" This startled outcry won him a skeptical look from Heero, and he explained immediately, "That's Trowa's name!" 

Heero nodded his understanding and returned to his work, seeming singularly uninterested. 

"I bet they _are_ related. Let's see... Trowa'll be a hundred and twelve this year... she could be his great-great-great-great-niece. Do you know where her family comes from, like, five generations ago?" 

"It's not something that's ever come up in conversation," Heero replied dryly. 

Duo laughed. "No, I guess it wouldn't. But the next time you talk to her, you should totally ask her. Trowa ran away from his parents when he was _eight_, but I know they came from--" 

"Duo, once you're human, you can study the genealogy of every single person in this company in detail if you want. But at the moment, I really don't need to give any of them another excuse to come over here." Heero sounded a little impatient as he said this, and Duo's first instinct was to tease him about being grouchy... but he decided against it. After all, it didn't seem quite fair to be inflicting this situation on him and then to get on his case for reacting naturally to it. So he just watched the reflection of the glowing screen in Heero's eyes and said nothing more for the moment. 

If Heero had been in a bad mood that morning, Duo was pleased to find him over it by lunch time. They went to the same parking lot as yesterday and talked cheerfully while Heero ate, and Duo had nothing to complain of beyond his fierce desire to try a chicken salad sandwich like the one Heero had. 

"I'm not a bad cook," Heero told him when he expressed this sentiment. "When you're human, I can make you all kinds of things." 

"I have never once seen you cook anything ever," Duo declared in grinning disbelief. "Unless it came from a package or something, I mean." 

Heero shrugged. "I don't much like cooking for just myself." 

"But Quatre's around all the time!" Thoughtfully Duo added, "I bet _he's_ a _great_ cook, though." 

Heero smirked. "You'd think so... but he's actually totally useless in the kitchen. It comes from having a paid cook all his life. He lives off leftovers from the stuff that guy makes, and anything you can just throw in the microwave." As Duo laughed (reflecting that at least the microwave part of that description would probably apply to him someday as well), Heero went on. "And I do sometimes cook for him... but you caught us during March Madness, and you don't _cook_ for that." 

"Well, I seem to remember something about _me_ owing _you_ lunch every day for a year anyway," Duo said. 

Again Heero shrugged. "That doesn't mean I can't make you dinner." And this statement, Duo thought happily, totally made up for being unable to experience the delicious-looking sandwich. There was a lot about Heero, in fact, that made up for a lot of things. No one person could ever really erase eighty-seven years of tribulation, but Duo was starting to think those eighty-seven years might have been worth it when he'd gotten to meet Heero at the end of them. 

Today they were only nine minutes late back from lunch. They'd left about five minutes early (Duo thought; it was hard to tell the time from his angle), and the resulting fourteen or so minutes' lateness was much better than Monday and Tuesday had been. This was probably a good thing, since Duo was sure that even the best friend of whatever managerial position Quatre occupied could only go so long on that sort of sloppy schedule without some kind of trouble arising. 

And just after lunch, they had the most interesting encounter of all.


	99. Plastic Part 49

The first indication that Heero had another pointless visitor was the appearance in front of him of some sort of small torture device. It had a couple of curving lengths of thick wire like a pincer and a long shaft leading to a round piece, all painted a disconcertingly sterile white, and it was held right in Heero's face by Wufei Chang. The latter had been out working on a contract for the last week, or else Heero might have remembered him and recognized his danger. Now it was too late. 

Heero actually started back at the unexpected sight of whatever it was Wufei was shoving at him. Any normal person, seeing this reaction, would have withdrawn the object and possibly apologized for the abrupt entrance; but Wufei just pushed the white claw-thing closer and said, "I happened to have an extra." 

"What the hell is it?" It was never really a good idea to admit any sort of ignorance to Wufei, but Heero was startled. 

"It's a doll stand," replied Wufei patronizingly. 

"Oh, no..." Duo groaned. 

Although he hadn't originally planned on touching the thing, Heero now reached out quickly and took the purported doll stand from Wufei's hand. If he didn't, Wufei might (would probably) decide to implement the device himself, and Duo didn't seem to like that idea. Heero thought he understood; the stand creaked and shifted ominously in his grip, and nothing had occurred to diminish the impression that it had been designed as a means of torturing unsuspecting dolls and their friends. 

"I heard you had a Star Trek doll," Wufei went on, "so I went home at lunch to get you a stand for it." He was obviously trying for a tone that would imply this to be normal behavior and motivated by generosity, but Heero knew better. Wufei didn't do things like this because he was _nice_, but, rather, to show off his expertise: _he_ had an extra doll stand; _he_ had been into the doll scene _long_ before _Heero_ had. 

"He just assumed you didn't have one?" Duo wondered incredulously. 

Heero said, "Thank you." This was another dangerous thing to allow Wufei to hear, but Heero really couldn't think of anything else. He'd never been entirely solid on how to deal with Wufei. 

"Oh, you're certainly welcome," Wufei said, sounding pleased with himself. "I've had an extra ever since I sold my John Locke figure." He added unnecessarily, "I didn't like the direction the writers were taking with his character." 

Noncommittally, Heero nodded. 

"He didn't like _what_?" said Duo. 

"I wasn't aware that you were also a fan of Star Trek," Wufei went on. Heero was not at all pleased by the tone of still-slightly-condescending camaraderie. Wufei already had this strange idea that there was some kind of connection between him and Heero because they were both of Asian descent, and in fact had once puzzled over the spelling of Heero's name so assiduously that Heero had been forced to explain why his parents and grandparents had chosen such American-looking romanizations. Heero was _not_ eager to have something else in common with Wufei. 

As it was too late to deny the accusation, however -- given that Duo was actually wearing the uniform, and that for Heero to pass himself off as a Star Trek fan was supposedly the point -- he simply nodded again. 

"If I were to hazard a guess," Wufei said in what he probably thought was a shrewd tone, "I would say you are a _Voyager_ fan." 

"Yes," said Heero at once, thinking to avoid prolonging this conversation by agreeing (little hope as he really had of its working). 

"If he were to _hazard a guess_?" Duo demanded. "Heero, who _is_ this guy?" 

"Do you want to know how I knew?" asked Wufei. Then, not waiting for Heero to tell him that he didn't, he explained, "You've got him in a 2009 reboot uniform, and no real fan of the original series could ever tolerate that movie." 

Heero really, _really_ didn't care how Star Trek people felt about the various parts of their universe, but he still didn't quite see Wufei's logic. Weren't there a number of Star Trek series? How did his supposedly not being a 'real fan of the original series' mean that he must be a _Voyager_ fan? 

Duo also had a problem with Wufei's statement. "What?!" he yelped. "That was a _great_ movie! What the hell didn't he like about it?" 

It had been Heero's intention to ask Wufei if he was on the clock and, hopefully, get rid of him that way. Instead, to please Duo, he relayed the question. "What didn't you like about it?" 

Wufei scowled. "It derailed the entire Star Trek continuity! Everything was wrong! I mean, Vulcan being destroyed? It invalidates every part of the story that comes after that!" 

"It was an alternate reality!" Duo protested. "They specifically said that _in the movie_. Who does he think Leonard Nimoy was playing?" 

Heero struggled to remember what he could of the film, from the single time he'd seen it the previous year, in order to reword Duo's statement so that Wufei wouldn't bite his head off. "It was an alternate reality, though. That was why the other Spock showed up: he came from our world, where all the things in the original show and movies _did_ happen, and Vulcan _wasn't_ destroyed." He _thought_ that was right, anyway... God, had he really just said all of that? 

"But there's _already_ an alternate reality in the original series. We _know_ what the alternate reality is like." 

"Um, what...?" said Duo. "I think he needs to go look up the word 'alternate.'" 

"I think there can be multiple alternate realities," Heero suggested cautiously. 

Wufei fumed, "But there doesn't _need_ to be. There was a lot of material they could have worked with that would have allowed them to give the series a fresh look with new actors without screwing up the timeline and justifying it with 'oh, it's just time-travel; it didn't really happen.'" 

Duo started to say something, but Wufei overrode him as he added, "It just didn't fit with Gene Roddenberry's original vision." 

There was a moment of silence, and then Duo burst out laughing. "What, his original vision that _included time travel and alternate realities?_" 

Heero was trying to think of a non-combative way to say this when Wufei snorted and changed his focus. "And Spock was too emotional. He was _never_ that emotional in the original series." 

Dropping the third person and addressing his opponent directly, despite Wufei being unable to hear him, Duo said derisively, "What, you mean after he'd just lost his entire planet and his _mom_? How did you _expect_ him to react??" 

"He _had_ just lost his entire planet and his mother," was how Heero relayed this, in as reasonable a tone as he could command. He wondered, without wanting to look, if anyone else was around and listening. What on earth would they think? Well, he supposed, a discussion like this could only enhance the idea that he was a fan... 

"He went through plenty of trauma in the original series," Wufei insisted, "without ever displaying that much emotion." 

"Um, yeah, dumbass, but this movie was set _before_ the original series. People do _change_, you know." It was actually rather amusing how annoyed Duo was about this. Really, it shouldn't be surprising that he was such a geek about something that had formed such a big part of his life. 

"But the Spock in the movie was younger," Heero translated. "It was before he'd learned to be that much in control." 

"Stop being so polite, Heero!" Duo complained. "This guy's bugging the hell out of me." 

"His involvement with Uhura was totally out of character too." It didn't seem that any of Duo's proxy arguments had made any impact whatsoever on Wufei; the latter was simply working his way down a list of complaints and systematically discarding any disagreement. 

"Well, I agree that Spock has always been pretty damn gay for Kirk," Duo said in a milder tone, "but in that movie--" But Heero never got to hear what Duo thought of Spock's 2009 relationship with Uhura, for at that moment they were interrupted. 

"Wufei, are you on the clock?" Dorothy had a way of asking this particular question that made even people that _weren't_ abusing the timeclock check to see if there was something more productive they could be doing. 

Wufei, who lived in his own very serious little world, was largely immune to things that affected other people strongly, but even he could not completely ignore that tone. He cleared his throat. "Yes. I was just discussing something with Heero." 

"I noticed," said Dorothy dryly. "Back to work now?" 

Wufei nodded somberly, then subtly did the 'Live long and prosper' gesture at Heero before retreating from the cubicle. Once again Duo burst into startled laughter. 

"You should know better than to get him worked up about something like Star Trek at this time of day," Dorothy chided as she came fully into the cubicle. "Now he won't get anything done for the rest of the afternoon." 

Heero couldn't quite bring himself to apologize. 

Dorothy stopped just beside him, looking down at Duo with a faint frown and brows drawn slightly together, evidently more pensive than disapproving or even curious. "At least you didn't agree with him," she murmured. "So he probably won't try to sneak back in here and continue the discussion the moment my back is turned." 

Heero acknowledged this point with a nod. 

As she went to leave, Dorothy added in a thoughtful tone, "Spock really _was_ always pretty gay for Kirk, wasn't he..." 

The moment she was gone, Heero leaned his elbow on the desk, bent forward, and rested his face in his hand. Torn between amusement and horror, he didn't quite know what to say or do now, and he felt more than a little tired out. "I am never doing that again," he murmured. "No more three-way conversations." 

Duo chuckled a little. "Not into threesomes, huh? Especially ones that nerdy, I bet." 

Heero nodded against his hand, and grumbled darkly, "Wufei's probably going to think he's my best friend now. I hope you appreciate this..." 

It was remarkable how the seriousness of Duo's reply, "More than I can tell you," could do so much to make everything in the world tolerable again.


	100. Plastic Part 50

Quatre didn't know whether Trowa had somehow (perhaps magically) been aware of the exact instant he would arrive on Thursday afternoon, or if he'd been in the entry just at that moment by coincidence; but whatever the cause, the result was the same: immediately inside the door they were in each other's arms without any verbal intimation that this was the greeting they both had in mind. It had happened exactly like this yesterday too, right down to the almost palpable despair in Trowa's movements. Quatre still wasn't quite sure what to do about that. 

Trowa was thin -- _very_ thin -- bordering on what Quatre would have called _unhealthily_ thin. It shouldn't have been a surprise, given that Quatre _knew_ what his eating habits were, but he wasn't used to it yet; every time he was blessed with the opportunity to run his hands over Trowa's arms and chest and back (and sometimes farther down because he simply couldn't resist), he was startled all over again at how scrawny his new boyfriend was. 

It made him want to sit Trowa down to a three-course meal at least twice a day from now on until he bulked up a little. Since this urge, so far, had arisen almost exclusively while Quatre was _kissing_ Trowa, however, and was usually forgotten when some tentative experimental shift of Trowa's lips or the desperate clinging of Trowa's hands thoroughly apprehended Quatre's attention, he hadn't given it much thought at any moment when he might have made practical use of it. 

This particular kiss came abruptly to an end when the bag Quatre had completely forgotten he was holding slipped from his otherwise-occupied hand and the plastic box inside it let out a crunch as it hit the floor. He pulled away from Trowa and said, somewhat breathlessly, "Look how much you've distracted me." 

"I'm sorry," Trowa replied, and, though Quatre knew he was responding to the laughing comment in kind, there was just a little too much honesty in his tone. Probably better not to tell him how spacy Quatre had been at work over the last couple of days. 

Quatre released Trowa and bent to retrieve the bag. "Much as I'd love to keep doing that all day, we need to eat lunch." 

"Must we?" said Trowa. 

With a wide grin Quatre turned to face him, excessively pleased. "Trowa, I think you're flirting with me!" 

"I may be," Trowa replied with a reluctant smile. 

"You need to smile more," Quatre breathed, moving right up against Trowa again. Not wishing to spoil the expression in question, he kissed Trowa's jaw and cheek and temple instead -- but after only that, Trowa turned and caught Quatre's mouth once more with his. He was getting better at this. 

Eventually they did make it into the kitchen and to some sort of rational thought concerning lunch. This was a set of microwaveable components that combined to form what the box claimed was mushroom stroganoff, which made Quatre laugh. At Trowa's curious look he decided to share his nostalgia. 

"As a little kid," he began, a bit absently as he'd also begun reading the microwave instructions on the side of the box, "I'd gotten it into my head that I hated mushrooms more than anything in the world. I probably really didn't like them much, but you know how little kids are... they think any food they don't absolutely love is unbearably disgusting, usually after they've tried it exactly once." 

Trowa didn't much look like he knew 'how little kids are,' possibly because he hadn't been one in a hundred years and his interaction with humans had been at a bare minimum for almost as long. Maybe sometime (sometime when Trowa's ability to deal with people had improved a bit, that is) Quatre would introduce him to some of his nieces and nephews. 

For now Quatre just went on in amusement, "According to my family, I had such a strong aversion to mushrooms that I was actually _afraid_ of them. I don't remember it exactly like that, but that's what they tell me: I wouldn't touch mushrooms; I'd run away from mushrooms; if there were mushrooms on the table, I'd back my chair away and try to eat from a distance..." He mimed eating with his arms stretched out at full length. "I guess they found it pretty hilarious -- and I can't really blame them -- because I _do_ remember my sisters chasing me around with mushrooms. I think I ran more just because they were chasing me, though, than because they had mushrooms in their hands." 

By their hot edges, he pulled the flimsy plastic containers from the microwave with his fingertips, and began carefully peeling the already-punctured plastic cover from the sauce. "This smells good," he murmured. 

Then, to his surprise, he felt the warmth of Trowa against him, leaning in somewhat hesitantly to find out what he was talking about. "It does," Trowa said quietly. 

Abruptly Quatre turned, putting himself chest-to-chest with Trowa. "Mmm, so do you," he said, and buried his face in Trowa's shoulder and neck. There was a stiff button-up shirt collar in his way, and Quatre pulled it slightly aside to get at Trowa's skin. Admittedly much of what Quatre could smell at the moment was mushroom sauce, but there was still about Trowa that air of dusty leather and crumbling paper that was so intriguing to Quatre. 

At first Trowa stood absolutely still as Quatre nuzzled and then began mouthing the pale flesh of his neck, but his breathing did quicken, and eventually his arms lifted, slid slowly up Quatre's sides, and came to rest around his back just above his waist. "Now who's doing the distracting?" Trowa whispered, his breath stirring Quatre's hair. 

Laughing, Quatre withdrew and looked into Trowa's still-mostly-serious face. He gave him a quick, hard kiss before squirming around in his arms to face the kitchen counter again. "You're right," he said. "Our food's going to get cold before it's even put together." 

"I wasn't really complaining," Trowa murmured into his ear, making Quatre shiver. 

As Quatre began stirring up the noodles and the sauce in a couple of bowls, Trowa released him -- which was disappointing, but probably better for productivity -- and said, "Was there more of your mushroom story?" 

"Oh, yes!" Quatre had completely forgotten he'd even been telling a story. "Set the table," he ordered. "So I was afraid of mushrooms, apparently, and my sisters -- at least the youngest three or four -- thought this was really funny." He lifted the two bowls and circumnavigated the counter to bring them to the table. "And one day -- I don't know whose idea it was -- one day they decided to take this one step further than just chasing me around with mushrooms. So they went into the kitchen and made some muffins, and they chopped up some mushrooms and mixed them into the muffin dough." 

Trowa, who was now settling into his usual place at the table, raised a skeptical eyebrow. 

Quatre laughed. "Yes, I'm sure they _did_ have something better to do," he said, taking his own seat across from Trowa. "But apparently this was important. So they brought me a muffin and asked if I wanted a 'muffroom.' And I told them, no, I didn't want a mushroom. 'No, a _muff_room,' they said, and showed me the muffin." 

"And how old were you?" Trowa asked. 

Quatre grinned. "Um, six? Maybe five. I'm not sure." 

"And was this before or after they'd started conning you at cards?" 

"I think that started soon after this." Quatre's grin widened. "Hey, this is good," he added after taking his first bite of the stroganoff. 

"Your opinion on mushrooms has changed," Trowa observed. 

"Yes, it has," agreed Quatre, and took another bite with relish. When his mouth was free he continued his account. "So I had this 'muffroom,' and I was suspicious of it because of the name. But my sisters insisted that they were only calling it that because it was shaped something like a mushroom, and eventually they got me to eat it. And obviously I couldn't taste the mushroom in it -- either that or I just really didn't hate mushrooms as much as I thought I did -- because I ate the whole thing and thought it was pretty good. 

"And of course after I'd finished it my sisters told me -- gleefully, triumphantly told me -- what had been in it. I think at first I didn't want to believe them, and repeated what they'd said to me about it being called a 'muffroom' because of how it was shaped and all that... but eventually I just started screaming and crying. I was upset that I'd eaten mushrooms, of course, but I was even more upset that they'd tricked me." 

"I can't imagine you screaming and crying," said Trowa, fixing him with a thoughtful gaze. "Not even as a child." 

"Oh, really?" Quatre found himself rather pleased at this 

Trowa shook his head. "No. I can't imagine you as anything but a very well-behaved child who was always in control of himself." 

At this Quatre laughed heartily. "I'll show you some pictures sometime of just how well-behaved I was as a kid," he said. 

And to Quatre's great delight, Trowa smiled. 

When they'd finished their lunch/dinner, Quatre with solemn pride brought out the key lime cheesecake he'd bought on the way over. It had smashed somewhat against one side of its box when he'd dropped it earlier, but he doubted this would affect its flavor. Trowa looked at the dessert almost suspiciously, at which Quatre laughed. He opened it with faux ceremony and made a show of plunging a fork into it and taking the first bite. "_I_ have a Cheesecake Factory in _my_ town," he said complacently. 

As Trowa made no move to join him at this pursuit, Quatre forked another bite and, leaning forward, brought it insistently to Trowa's mouth. Though he still appeared more than a bit wary, Trowa submitted to this and allowed himself to be fed. Then Quatre sat back and watched him, waiting to see how he liked it. 

There was no marked change to Trowa's expression, but Quatre saw the twitches of his eyebrows -- first down, then up a little higher than they had been before -- because he was looking for them. _Mission accomplished_, he thought. 

"That..." Trowa said presently, slowly, "is _very_ good." 

Quatre beamed. He had a feeling he was going to be late back from lunch again, but he couldn't really bring himself to worry about it.


	101. Plastic Part 51

Heero was used to being a little restless at work on Fridays -- not that he showed it, but he liked his weekends. And today there was the added bonus of really wanting this week to end, since he was hoping that the fervor about Duo would die once everyone had had a Saturday and Sunday to calm down and perhaps forget. So it was no surprise that he was a little more impatient even than usual with anyone that approached him for anything less than a perfectly businesslike reason. 

"I think you made that one cry," Duo remarked, and not in a terribly accusatory tone, as someone from HR that had only had the very flimsiest excuse left in something of a hurry. 

Heero stood halfway out of his chair, looking after the woman. He certainly didn't enjoy the undue attention he and Duo were receiving, but making people cry was not something he wanted to do. From here, however, it was impossible to tell whether or not he had. 

Evidently seeing the concern on his face and guessing at its cause, Duo hastily reassured him, "I was exaggerating. I don't think she was really crying." 

With a nod, resolving to try for greater patience with his next visitor just in case, Heero resumed his seat. And as he did so, he caught sight of the doll stand Wufei had brought him on Wednesday. Heero had pulled its three pieces apart and tossed them aside after Wufei had gone, and after that entirely lost track of it. Now he reached around the computer monitor to retrieve each of the parts, and started fitting them back together contemplatively. 

"Oh, no," Duo said. "I hoped you'd forgotten about that." 

"I did," Heero murmured, "until I saw it just now." 

"Please don't put me in that thing," Duo begged. 

Heero shook his head, trying to figure out how the last piece went on. 

"Please?" reiterated Duo. When Heero still didn't answer, Duo continued in a sort of chant, "Please? Please? Please? Please? Safe word?" 

His full attention most definitely procured by this, Heero was startled into a laugh. "It's so strange what you know about and what you don't," he told the doll. 

"Yeah, I know," replied Duo somewhat bitterly. 

"You don't know what IT people are," Heero went on, setting the doll stand aside and giving Duo his full attention, "but you know about safe words..." 

"Yeah, it's stupid," Duo admitted. "I've just picked up random things from various people and TV shows, and I don't know a lot of stuff a normal person would." 

"_How_ do you know about safe words?" persisted Heero. "Or would I rather not know?" 

"Weeeelllll... it hasn't _all_ been kids..." Duo's tone was somewhere between 'shrug' and 'grimace' with a touch of sheepishness thrown in, and the fact that he wasn't using this topic as a springboard for flirtation indicated -- to Heero, at least -- that he took it _very_ seriously. 

"I can see I _would_ rather not know," Heero said lightly, not wanting to make Duo uncomfortable. And then he tried to return to his work and not think about everything that conversation had just dredged up in the back of his head. 

Heero had never done anything that required a safe word, and knew little more about that kind of play than what was supposedly common knowledge. He was aware that there could be ropes or handcuffs involved, and spanking or whipping or something like that... that it was supposed to be about trust, and one person submitting to the control of another... 

Duo had been so absolutely under the control of others for so long, with no recourse for decent treatment beyond begging, having mental discomfort and embarrassment forced on him... Even now that he'd found his old friend again and was on his way to having the curse broken, he was still _completely_ at Heero's mercy... Heero doubted very much that deliberately putting himself in the role of the victim (or whatever it was called in that context) was something that would at all appeal to Duo. 

The other way around, however... 

No, Heero did _not_ need to be thinking about that. He was at work, and his face was clearly visible to Duo, and he probably shouldn't be fantasizing about someone else's boyfriend in the first place. And yet it was proving quite a daunting task to escape from the mental image of Duo -- the hypothetical human Duo in Heero's imagination, with his smooth tanned skin and his strong hands -- tying Heero up, blindfolding him, making it _Heero's_ turn to beg, and-- 

"Konnichiwa, Heero-san." 

He wasn't sure whether he was more irritated or grateful at this. He'd been afraid Wufei might start coming over here to talk to him more frequently now that they'd inadvertently bonded over Star Trek, but at the same time couldn't really think of a better buzz-kill than the somewhat creepy tone of Wufei's formal greeting -- and a buzz-kill was exactly what he'd needed just now. 

Heero swiveled to face him. "Hello," he said. For some reason, his eyes locked onto and could not tear themselves from Wufei's tie, which had a vaguely familiar pink heart in the midst of some kind of machiney grey stuff and actually didn't look too bad against his dark red-grey shirt. 

"And how is your first officer today?" Wufei stepped up and reached for Duo before Heero could stop him. To Heero's dismay, Wufei's other hand went for the doll stand at the same time, and Heero could not think of a damn thing to say to prevent the union of the two objects. Wufei filled the silence, however. "Who is he supposed to be?" He added with absolute certainty, "He isn't an original series character, or anyone from that awful movie." 

"He's a..." Heero scrambled for a plausible answer, and perhaps it was what he'd just been thinking about before Wufei's appearance that supplied his eventual, "...role-play character." 

Wufei set the newly-ensconced Duo back down on the desk and turned eager, calculating eyes on Heero. "I was not aware that you role-played." 

"I... yeah, sometimes," said Heero weakly. 

"My group--" Wufei began. 

Hastily Heero interrupted him. "I think Dorothy is coming over here. You'd better get back to your desk." 

Wufei looked around with a frown, then nodded. "You're right. We can discuss this later." 

_Not if I can help it_, Heero reflected as he watched Wufei's surreptitious departure. 

Somebody else approached Heero at that moment looking for information, and throughout this encounter Duo said nothing. But the instant this second co-worker was out of the way, Heero turned to the sound of a pathetic noise from Duo and pulled the doll out of the stand. 

"Thank you," Duo said intensely as Heero replaced him in his previous seated position beside the monitor. 

Heero nodded, and began dismantling the stand again. 

Duo sighed. "I'm starting to lose track of who's picked me up and who hasn't." 

"I'm sorry," replied Heero. "I try to keep them from doing it." 

In a head-shaking sort of tone, Duo said, "Not your fault," and sighed again. 

"Only twenty-four more days..." 

"Hey, that's only a little more than three weeks!" And Duo sounded a little more hopeful. 

Again Heero nodded. Then he opened one of his desk drawers and pulled aside its contents, looking for a place to hide the pieces of the doll stand. "I know this thing is terrifying," he said as he did so, "but what is it that bugs you about it?" 

Now Duo snorted. "Oh, just that I spent three years in one of those as a decoration in somebody's guest room -- which _never got used_ \-- with nobody to talk to and no TV or anything." 

"Oh," said Heero softly. Inwardly he was swearing fanatically that Duo would never have to occupy a doll stand ever again if he had the slightest say in the matter. 

"Just staring at the horrible picture above the bed across the room..." Duo murmured in a tone that was the emotional polar opposite of nostalgic, "standing there with some nice-looking books nobody ever read on one side and a Happy Holiday Barbie on the other... listening to the world keep moving outside... going crazy..." 

"Wow," Heero breathed. As often happened when Duo spoke of his experiences as a doll over the years, Heero was overcome with an almost physical sensation of pity and horror, and he just wished there was something more he could do to make things right for Duo. 

Abruptly Duo shook his head, as if to shake the memories away. Cheerfully -- too cheerfully, Heero thought, especially all of a sudden like this -- he repeated Heero's earlier words: "Only twenty-four more days!"


	102. Plastic Part 52

Just as he'd become accustomed in an insanely short period of time to eating lunch with Quatre every day, Trowa was now quickly getting used to Quatre showing up every night after work. This meant he had dual distractions from his own work as he found himself caught between the neverending cycle of guilt facilitated by the artifact in his study and the unfamiliar, warm feeling of pleasure and anticipation regarding Quatre and when he would next appear. 

It didn't help that the latter made the former so much worse. A voice in his head kept asking, _Should you really be doing this? Leaving Heero with all the real work for Duo while you enjoy yourself with someone you will never deserve? Someone whose entire life you might destroy at any time?_ For this he had no real answer, but he couldn't dismiss it or ignore it during the long hours he spent alone in his house attempting to take notes or do research. Only Quatre's actual appearance pushed such thoughts farther back into the darkness and let him rest a little for a while. 

He'd fallen asleep in his chair again when Quatre showed up at about nine o'clock on Friday night, and was awakened when his new paramour climbed into his lap and made himself comfortable. "Hi," Quatre said when he noticed Trowa had awakened. 

"Hello," Trowa replied, lifting his arms to wrap around and hold Quatre. 

Quatre kissed him briefly and beautifully, then laid his head on Trowa's shoulder and sighed. "Meetings all afternoon, and all I can think about is you..." 

That wasn't right. Inevitably temporary involvement with someone like Trowa shouldn't be distracting Quatre from his real life... no matter how much, against his will, Trowa adored the thought that Quatre had been dwelling on him since they'd seen each other earlier. 

Abruptly Quatre sat up and fixed Trowa with a stern look. "You just made that noise again." 

"What noise?" 

"You do that sometimes about things I say... and then you get this look..." Quatre appeared decidedly unhappy all of a sudden. "Trowa, what is it about this that's bothering you? Is there something I'm doing that you don't like? Because you seem like you want to push me away." 

Trowa didn't know what to say. How could he tell Quatre that he was like a drug... that he rendered everything colorful and sensitized when he was around, that he made Trowa feel _wonderful_... but that the moment he was gone, everything was even more bleak than before he'd come? That the better a time Trowa had with Quatre, the worse he felt when it was over? That having experienced this high only increased Trowa's guilt and self-loathing once he came down? 

"I don't... I shouldn't..." He took a deep breath and tried to regulate his thoughts and channel them properly for once. Quatre had asked, and he deserved an answer -- at least deserved to know that it was nothing about him personally that Trowa was trying to push away. "I love having you around," Trowa finally managed. "It makes me... happier... than I have been... in a long time. But that doesn't feel right, when Duo is still suffering and--" 

Quatre broke in with a frustrated noise of his own, shifting all at once so that he was straddling Trowa's lap, his legs pressed hard into the arms of the chair on either side, and looking him directly in the eye. He took Trowa's face firmly in his hands and said, "Trowa. You need to get over this thing you have about Duo. This is not about Duo. Duo has nothing to do with this." 

"I know you want me to... forgive myself..." Trowa replied, "but it's not that easy..." 

"It's not even that," Quatre sighed. "Just stop thinking of yourself in terms of what you did to Duo eighty-seven years ago. Yes, you hurt him; yes, he's still suffering. But that doesn't mean _you_ don't deserve to have _any_ good experiences _ever_ again. Even if you do buy into the whole karma thing and believe that you have to be punished for your mistake, don't you think you've suffered enough?" 

Grey-blue eyes held a pair of crescent moons in an unbreakable lock of gazes as Quatre ranted on. "You don't have to keep pushing good things away because you think you don't deserve them. You're allowed to enjoy food and sleep and -- and _me_ \-- without beating yourself up over whether or not you're stepping outside some arbitrary boundary set by some mistake you once made." 

Quatre released him, and Trowa felt his eyes sink closed as his head bent forward; Quatre met Trowa's brow with his lips as Trowa said softly, "Whatever I deserve, I'm sure it's not you." 

A sad-sounding little laugh vibrated against Trowa's skin. "What on earth are you thinking about me?" Quatre murmured. "Do you think I'm some kind of valuable prize that should have gone to a better winner?" 

"Something like that," Trowa admitted. 

Quatre laughed again, ruefully. "Well, I'm flattered. But seriously, I'm just a normal person like everyone else." He turned his face so that his cheek rested against Trowa's forehead. "I am absolutely nothing special, and nothing you should feel like you 'don't deserve.'" 

"You're something special to me," Trowa murmured. He still couldn't quite find words for the full effect Quatre had on him, but he could at least try to articulate the more straightforward parts of it. "You've made me... see the world again... even if I'm not ready for it... I'm more alive now than I have been for decades." _And even when you leave,_ he didn't add aloud, _I'll still be alive because of you._

"I'm glad," said Quatre quietly. "I want you to be happy. I want to _make_ you happy. Can you accept that? As something I want, maybe, instead of something you think you don't deserve?" 

"I can try," Trowa murmured. 

"Thank you," said Quatre. And he drew back, took Trowa's face in his hands again, and kissed him. 

It was very much like their first kiss had been: Quatre's hands sliding down to Trowa's neck, thumbs pressing upward to lift his chin; Quatre seeming a trifle unsure of how willing he would find Trowa, but in no way uncertain about what he wanted himself; Trowa with no real idea how best to respond, but knowing equally well that, if he could have, he would have made this last forever. His hands ran up and down Quatre's warm back, the latter slightly curved as Quatre, kneeling in the chair, had to bend a little to reach Trowa's mouth; and Quatre's hands crumpled and worried the collar of his shirt. 

It was good... it was all _so_ good, in fact, that the dark voice in the back of Trowa's head started muttering grimly about how painful things were going to be later when Quatre had gone, when the guilt came crashing down again and the feelings of inadequacy Quatre had been preaching against returned from their shadowy corners to remind Trowa of what he was and what he had done. 

Feeling the strength of Quatre against him, however, Trowa was conscious of a simultaneous steeling of resolve in those same shadowy corners of his mind. Quatre wanted him to be happy... Quatre wanted him not to feel undeserving. And Trowa had promised to try. Tonight, at least, he would not go down without a fight.


	103. Plastic Part 53

  


On occasion over the last few days, Quatre had gotten the feeling that Trowa was as taken by the novelty of having someone paying him this sort of attention as by Quatre himself -- that Trowa was charmed perhaps more by the concept of someone being interested in him for the first time in god knew how long than by Quatre specifically. Quatre couldn't possibly be pleased by this, but he had to admit that it made a certain sense: Trowa had been waiting so long for someone to love, since the disaster of his last attempt, that _anyone_ willing to make the effort might have sufficed, at least at first -- and he couldn't be blamed for that. 

But now, Quatre felt, Trowa's focus was entirely and intensely on _him_, on _Quatre Winner_, not simply on the person that had forced his way into Trowa's life. He wasn't sure how he knew this was the case, but it was an understanding he would not deny. Bright eyes met his with purpose, and there was a different sense, somehow, to the usual desperation of Trowa's movements. Trowa wanted him here now, and nobody else would do. It was an intoxicating feeling. 

Quatre kissed him harder and deeper, pushing forward in the chair to bring them into closer contact. Trowa felt so good beneath him, wiry and warm; and his desperate lips and tongue were so precisely what Quatre liked... He had said that he wanted to make Trowa happy, and he'd meant it... at the moment, he wanted to make him very happy in a very specific way. Trowa had said that Quatre had brought him to life... well, how about a little more of that? 

His hands were already unbuttoning Trowa's shirt before he even finished this train of thought, and he'd begun actively grinding against him where his legs were splayed out around him. He could feel the cushion shifting beneath them as he moved, and he could feel Trowa going stiff. He wondered if Trowa was aware that his roving hands had come to rest cupping Quatre's buttocks. 

"Quatre...!" Trowa gasped as Quatre broke away from his mouth, and there was a look of blended desire and near-panic in his uncanny eyes. 

"Do you want me to stop?" Quatre whispered. 

"No!" said Trowa immediately. As once before at this word (if not precisely this tone), Quatre wasn't entirely sure he believed him. He wondered how long it had been since Trowa had done anything like this. To be honest, he wouldn't be surprised if he _never_ had. 

At Quatre's hesitance, Trowa lowered his brows slightly and very deliberately kissed him again. The message was clear, and it sent something white-hot running through Quatre's chest and down through his stomach and abdomen into his groin. All reluctance burned away, Quatre felt his hands slip into the open shirt and caress his lover's chest even as he again pulled away from Trowa's lips and let his own crawl along Trowa's jaw to his ear and down his neck. 

They were positioned awkwardly, but Quatre had no desire whatsoever to let go of the heat that was building up in an attempt to find a better place to do this. Trowa was breathing somewhat heavily in his ear as Quatre bared one of his shoulders and a pallid path for a trailing tongue to follow. Meanwhile his other hand teased briefly at a hard nipple before creeping downward. Trowa's hands were still clamped on Quatre's buttocks; Quatre would have preferred them moving like his own, but that didn't mean he wasn't fairly happy with them where they were. 

Because Trowa had legs that went on forever, which Quatre had already had occasion to admire, Quatre was quite familiar with the slacks Trowa usually wore. It was no difficult or lengthy task to get the button unfastened and attack the zipper, and then his left hand was buried in the heat of underwear and curling hair, seeking out the semi-erect penis he was dying to get at. Trowa let out a little groaning cry as Quatre found it, clutching at him even more tightly. In complacence Quatre sighed against Trowa's shoulder as his fingers closed around the silky, hot, sensitive flesh and began to explore. 

It wasn't long before Trowa was fully erect in Quatre's hand, leaking in his readiness, and moaning with every other breath. The rest of his body was likewise stiff and still, allowing Quatre to do whatever he wanted, and Quatre got the feeling that, as with kissing, Trowa hadn't the faintest idea what he should be doing. So, with his free hand, Quatre worked at his own belt and then the fastening of his pants, and eventually freed his own hard length to increase the heat between them. 

He had rather hoped Trowa would take some initiative at this point, but evidently the magician was paralyzed either by the weight of his own inexperience or the pleasure Quatre was giving him (or perhaps both). So instead, Quatre angled his hips better so that their erections were more easily parallel -- as much as they could be with the straightness of Trowa's next to the upward curve of Quatre's -- and widened his grip to encompass both of them together. His own breaths had been fairly quick for some time, but now as he touched himself alongside Trowa they started to come in gasps. He let his head fall back, closing his eyes, and felt Trowa's face come to rest against his exposed neck. 

Trowa was getting closer and closer; Quatre could feel it. He would like to come with him, unlikely as he thought that was, and so, to bring himself faster, concentrated on the feeling of Trowa's mouth working slowly against his neck, giving out incoherent sounds of pleasure in warm wet breaths on Quatre's skin; the clutching of Trowa's long hands at his buttocks, tense and hard, trying to pull him closer, his need of Quatre very evident; the smell of sweat and dust and sex between them. 

Then, with a long, ecstatic breath that ended in a faint, helpless moan, Trowa found his release, coming onto his own stomach and Quatre's hand. The latter thus slickened made even quicker progress toward bringing Quatre to orgasm, and Trowa groaned with each stroke that teased his softening member before Quatre also came with a little cry of pleasure. 

Relaxing in the chair, his head falling into the corner between the back and one of its wings, Trowa breathed out Quatre's name for no apparent purpose. Quatre, still holding their spent penises in one hand, ran the other down Trowa's upturned jaw and then followed it slowly with his mouth. Then he let his own head rest against Trowa's shoulder again, and neither of them said anything for some time; their gasping breaths calmed and their heart-rates slowed and their bodies cooled, and Quatre thought they were both quite content. 

Finally he sat up straight again, slowly, and looked around. Behind him on the table, just within reach if he stretched, was the box of Kleenex he'd brought over here back when (it seemed forever ago, now) Trowa had shed tears over the realization of how to break the curse. He snagged a tissue with his free hand and set about cleaning them up. 

The cushion had come about a third of the way out from where Quatre's knees had been forcing it away from the back of the chair, and as a consequence Trowa had slumped down somewhat in his seat. Reluctant as he was to move, Quatre eventually had to stand and pull Trowa up after him in order to fix this. He refastened both their pants while he was at it, then pushed Trowa back into the chair and settled again on his lap -- in his original position now, sitting almost beside rather than on top of him with his legs draped over Trowa's. He wrapped his arms around Trowa -- a gesture that was immediately reciprocated -- laid his head once more on Trowa's shoulder, and let out another pleased breath. 

After a long, comfortable silence, Trowa murmured, "It's been... a long time... since..." 

Quatre raised his face and kissed the first piece of flesh available, which turned out to be the corner of Trowa's jaw. "I hope you enjoyed it," he said. 

"Yes," said Trowa. "I didn't think I would, but I did." 

Stifling a sigh, Quatre wondered, "Dare I ask why you didn't think you'd enjoy it?" 

"You probably won't want to hear it," admitted Trowa. 

"Well, tell me anyway, and then maybe once you've said it you can put it behind you." 

"I stopped... touching myself... not long after the curse. I didn't feel like I deserved to feel pleasure. And especially once I realized how I felt about Duo... that particular kind of pleasure seemed especially inappropriate, when it was... something I might have shared with him if I hadn't done what I'd done... and when what I'd done had taken away his ability to feel anything like that, as far as I knew, forever." 

Yes, Quatre still had his doubts about Trowa's assertion that he was no longer in love with Duo... but, as Trowa was cuddling _Quatre_ in an armchair at the moment, had told _Quatre_ that he was willing to try to overcome his old guilt and build a happy relationship, Quatre didn't feel it wise or kind to express his jealousy. So he nodded slowly. "I guess that makes sense." 

"So I thought that... you doing something like that to me..." Trowa went on, still in that broken, hesitant way that indicated he was having a hard time finding words for what he wanted to say, "I thought it would feel... wrong. But it didn't." 

"Good," said Quatre, and nuzzled his face into Trowa's collarbone, and then repeated more quietly, almost in a whisper, "Good."


	104. Plastic Part 54

  


Heero awoke at a positively _insane_ hour of the morning to, of all things, the sound of Trowa's voice in his bedroom. That probably explained why he'd been dreaming of fighting Trowa, though not necessarily why they'd been wearing more tattoos than clothing and using spears. Now he sat up groggily, glaring at the clock until the numbers (and there were _far_ too many sevens involved) came into focus, and said, "What the hell are you doing in here?" 

"Poor grumpy Heero is rude," said Duo cheerfully. 

"Pardon me," was Trowa's stiff answer. "I didn't mean to wake you up. I'll go." He'd been standing by the nightstand, undoubtedly having sneaked in here for a quiet conversation with Duo while Heero couldn't hear them -- only they'd gotten too loud -- and now he turned toward the door. 

Heero took a deep breath. He shouldn't even be awake at this time on a Saturday, let alone having to deal with this kind of thing. But he tried to beat back his irritation and jealousy, and said, "No, don't go. Finish your conversation." And he returned to his previous position, putting his back to the other two so he wouldn't have to look at them, and pulled the blanket up to his face. 

"Isn't he sweet?" Duo grinned. "OK, Trois, so, then this guy says, 'And how is your first officer today?'" Duo's imitation of Wufei's inflection was spot-on. 

"No, I'm going to go," said Trowa firmly. "Heero, I am sorry I woke you up." 

Heero just grunted. 

"Aww," said Duo a moment later. "I didn't get to finish telling him." Concurrent with this remark, Heero heard the sound of Trowa's door opening and closing out in the living room. Then, after a few moments of silence, Duo said quietly, "I wonder what's going on with him..." 

Turning again, Heero propped himself up on an elbow and looked at Duo where he sat on the nightstand behind the clock. He knew he probably didn't really want to know, but he asked anyway. "What do you mean?" 

Duo sounded very thoughtful as he answered, "He seemed really... agitated. But not in a bad way. Almost I'd say... well, except... I don't know. He didn't tell me anything that would explain it. He said he's writing a book, but that's nothing special..." 

Reflecting that he'd been right -- he really _hadn't_ wanted to hear all of that -- Heero settled back down into bed again. "Well," he forced himself to say, "you _do_ only have three weeks of your curse left. That seems like a good reason to be happy." 

"But he was so different from just the last time I saw him on... I think it was Tuesday morning," Duo mused. "I wonder what's happened... and why he didn't tell me..." 

As Heero made no reply, Duo said nothing more, and Heero closed his eyes and relaxed for several minutes. He found, however, that the exchange had been enough to wake him beyond the point of no return. This was past the time he got up on weekdays, after all... dammit... He sat up and flung the blanket off of him in an abrupt, irritated movement. 

"Whoa!" Duo exclaimed. "You startled the hell out of me!" 

Heero rose and, seizing the doll without a word, stalked out to the kitchen. 

Duo recovered quickly. "So, tennis today, huh?" 

"Yes," Heero said shortly. 

"Do you want to know how I knew?" Again Duo imitated Wufei particularly well. 

A little cheered, Heero replied, "Sure." 

"Apparently Quatre invited Trowa to come along," Duo explained. "Not like there's even the smallest chance he would, but I think he was happy about the invitation." 

Busying himself with coffee, Heero said nothing. 

"Sooo..... Oz today?" Duo sounded hopeful as he partially repeated his previous statement. 

This seemed like an excellent idea to Heero -- and definitely one less likely to make him jealous than Duo talking about Trowa all day. "Yes," he said. "Right after breakfast." 

Tennis was at two, and eventually Heero reached the point where he couldn't put off deciding what to wear any longer. This was something that had plagued him in the past, since the athletic club all the others belonged to had certain unspoken dress standards even on the courts; though Heero was not about to wear the type of $250 designer shorts his friends did, he also didn't want to make them look bad. So, rather painstakingly, he'd built up for these occasions a small collection of pieces that were both functional and relatively smart but hadn't cost him an arm and a leg... but this time he had to accommodate Duo somehow, and cargo pants obviously weren't going to work. 

After much thought, he chose the one polo that had a breast pocket, and picked at the lower seams of the latter with a fork until there was a sizeable hole. Tests confirmed that Duo's legs would fit through this so he could sit fairly securely in the pocket, but Heero wasn't entirely confident; trying to ignore Duo's fits of laughter at all of these proceedings, he went looking for a safety pin. When it turned out that his apartment was a completely safety-pin-free zone, he determined to leave early and stop somewhere on the way to get one. 

Duo was in quite a good mood today, apparently, and was whistling as Heero drove. Heero liked to see him so happy, and tried not to think about the likelihood of its being due to Trowa's appearance this morning. And the visit to the convenience store only improved Duo's mood when the cashier that rang up Heero's safety pins, catching sight of the doll riding in the pocket of his slacks, gave him a very strange look. 

A membership at the Glazebrook West Athletic Club was nothing Heero had any interest in, despite the club's growing reputation as a predominantly gay organization. Having three friends with memberships and guest passes was enough for regular tennis matches, and a YMCA was sufficient the rest of the time. This did mean, however, that Heero had to wait around in the parking lot for one of his friends to show up and get him in. 

The sight of a familiar sky-blue Z4, its passengers evidently already having gone inside, indicated that it was Quatre he was waiting for this time, and Heero was somewhat surprised not to find his friend there before him. He turned his car off, rolled down his window, sat back, and explained to Duo what was going on. 

"Not like Quatre to be late, is it?" Duo remarked. 

Heero shook his head. 

He'd seen little of Quatre over the last few days, and each time he had run into him, his friend had seemed very preoccupied; still, Heero doubted that Quatre had been hit with any kind of last-minute conflict to prevent his playing today -- not only because Quatre would have called by now, but also because he'd made that odd invitation to Trowa. 

About that Heero had to wonder, despite not really wanting to think more about Trowa than necessary. Had Quatre suggested Trowa magically pop into their tennis court, or did he have guest pass plans for him? Heero knew Quatre had been trying to pull Trowa out of reclusion somewhat; he didn't know how successful that venture had been so far, but, based on what Duo had said this morning, Trowa wasn't really ready for this kind of social interaction just yet. 

But what if Trowa _did_ magically pop into their tennis court? Jealousy or no jealousy, that thought was rather entertaining. 

Quatre turned out to be only a few minutes late after all. When Heero saw him pulling into the next spot, he closed his window and gathered up Duo and his gym bag. 

"Hi, guys!" Quatre greeted them cheerfully, hefting his own much nicer bag and locking up his car. 

"Hi, Quatre!" Duo waved. 

Quatre's smiling gaze rose from Duo to Heero's face, where it turned thoughtful. "How are you going to manage this?" he asked. 

Before Heero could say anything, Duo answered for him almost smugly: "A specially-modified Duo-carrying shirt." 

"I can't wait to see it," Quatre grinned. Then he gave Heero another thoughtful look as they fell into step toward the entrance. 

Heero could tell that Quatre was doing his absolute best... but evidently the sight of him in the changing room tucking Duo into his pocket, then pinning the back of Duo's little uniform to his polo, was too much for Quatre; he turned away, his shoulders shaking, his breath coming in audible gasps. 

"It's OK, Quatre," Duo condescended. "You can go ahead and laugh." 

"He doesn't have _my_ permission to laugh," said Heero as he dug out his tennis racquet. "He has to get it OK'd by _both_ of us." 

"Aww, Heero!" Duo exulted. "Are we making decisions together now?" 

For once Heero was glad of Duo's physical insensibility; otherwise, having him so close to his heart might have been something of a problem. 

Quatre opened his mouth as if to say something, then closed it again and shook his head minutely, a hugely amused expression still on his face. When he did eventually speak, all he said was, "Ready?" 

Heero nodded. As they left the changing rooms and headed for the tennis courts, Heero steeled himself. People that frequented high-end clubs were often a little eccentric, but what they would make of someone with a Star Trek doll in his pocket he did not like to think. He wasn't about to try to hide Duo, however; Duo had already had enough of that. 

Thankfully, the number of double-takes he occasioned on the way out was minimal, but the real test was yet to come. For soon they were walking through the meticulously-cultivated shrubbery that surrounded the various outdoor sporting areas, and approaching the court where Zechs and Treize awaited them.


	105. Plastic Part 55

  


Duo was done with jealousy mostly. Regular, human humans could eat, drink, breathe, sleep, smell, walk, and fuck, and Duo had spent more than enough time being jealous of it. He'd eventually decided he was simply done with the emotion. 

However, seeing so handsome a man with as much hair as he'd had -- proportionally speaking, as much hair as he _still_ had -- was enough to make him feel a little green. He missed the weight and sensation of his own hair, missed washing it and brushing it and braiding it, if not exactly _more_ than the other physicalities he lacked at least _more precisely_ than many of them. And this friend of Heero's, this stunning, shining platinum blonde, was certain not to appreciate these privileges as well as he should. 

Of course, with the way the two interacted, Duo guessed that plenty of appropriate appreciation came from the other, also excessively handsome man -- the one whose eyebrows looked a little like those of that witchy Dorothy manager woman at Heero's work -- and not just appropriate appreciation of the hair alone. Both men appeared to be in their late thirties, and very, pointedly splendid in their matching tennis outfits. 

"There you two are," said the first as Heero and Quatre let themselves into the chain-link enclosure. 

Quickly though Heero turned aside to move around the net and reach for a ball that already lay on the ground there, the others obviously caught sight of Duo anyway. The improbable blonde had evidently been about to say something else, but instead -- and Duo could only tell by turning his head hard left -- threw a confused frown in Quatre's direction. Though Quatre was outside of his field of vision, Duo guessed there followed some sort of emphatic _Don't ask_ gesture; for with fabulous aplomb, the man went on smoothly, perhaps with what he'd originally been intending to say. "How are you two doing?" 

"We're great," Quatre replied immediately. "How are you guys?" Heero was by now bouncing a ball on his racquet and facing the net, so Duo could see Quatre moving to a corresponding position on the other side. 

"Answering for both of you now, are you, Quatre?" asked the one with the eyebrows in a warm, cultured voice. "Does that mean you two are finally dating?" 

"No." Heero spoke a good deal more lightly than Duo had been expecting. "But he does usually know how I'm doing." And he served. 

The conversation continued in a somewhat broken fashion as Heero and Quatre warmed up. Evidently last month's tennis had been canceled, so these four hadn't met in quite some time (which, Duo guessed, was the primary reason Heero hadn't put off today's get-together until some time when he _didn't_ have a doll grinning out of his polo pocket). The others wanted to know about various random aspects of the lives of Heero and Quatre, including a lot of boring business stuff, gossip about people whose names Duo didn't recognize, and whether Heero was still driving the same ancient car. 

They also had plenty to tell about their own doings, including some even more boring, largely financial business talk, more gossip about people Duo didn't know, and accounts of recent luxurious indulgences that -- even to Duo, whose concept of the current value of money was rather unclear -- marked them as wealthier than anyone should really be allowed to be. He'd always vaguely understood that dentistry was a lucrative field, and this seemed to bear out that understanding, whatever they had to say about the flat economy. 

And periodically, they would look at Duo. Duo could tell whenever this happened because a flicker of curious confusion would cross their faces like some sort of brief system malfunction in an otherwise very urbane program. They were obviously dying to know what was going on there, but complying for the moment with Quatre's unspoken edict. 

When a real game started -- Duo's friends on one side and the dazzlers on the other -- things got more interesting. For one thing, Quatre either wasn't very good at tennis or was _way_ off his game today. And the other two guys kept congratulating each other every time something went their way because of this, which quickly became rather insufferable but did at least reveal their names: the improbable blonde was called 'Mill,' apparently, while the one with the eyebrows was 'Treize.' What kind of names these were Duo didn't know... but, then, he'd never met anyone else named 'Duo,' either. 

Positively the most engrossing thing about this tennis match, however, was being so close against Heero as the latter exerted himself, grew hot and sweaty, and breathed hard. Of course Duo could not actually _feel_ any of this, but he was appreciating the hell out of the awareness of it while he had the chance. Beyond that, he thought there might be a market for chest-mounted sportscasting cameras; the game was far more interesting from this angle. Though that might just have been the aforementioned proximity to Heero, and you couldn't really market _that_... 

The two teams were nicely matched today, it seemed: this side handicapped by whatever was wrong with Quatre (though, for all Duo knew, he always played this badly), the others by their debilitating curiosity about Duo that kept their eyes lingering on him longer than they really should have been if they wanted to watch the ball. Only Heero was really on top of defense, but he couldn't be everywhere, which meant that a lot of points were scored on both sides simply because nobody was able to prevent it. 

They played two games, both of which Heero won, and declined by general agreement to play a third. Then all four of them headed at a leisurely pace back toward the building. 

"Well," said the one with the eyebrows as they walked, gesturing at the chest of Heero, who was at his side, "I don't know how sportsmanlike this is, but it seems to be an effective strategy." 

"Maybe we should try it in the future," put in the improbable blonde. 

Duo couldn't quite tell from here, but he thought Heero was actually smiling a bit as he replied, "I would be interested in seeing that." 

The one with the eyebrows laughed softly. "I can only imagine what everyone else would think. They'd probably take us for some exclusive clique." 

"'The Dolls-on-Chest Society,'" suggested the improbable blonde. "'The Docs' for short." 

"Except that you and I are already 'Docs.'" Eyebrowface's tone was somewhat self-congratulatory at this. 

Blondie indulged in their status right along with him. "We are indeed!" 

"That reminds me," Heero put in, probably hoping to change the subject and avoid ever having to explain Duo. "My sister's looking for a new dentist -- something about a crown or something. Treize, do you have a business card with you? Or can you just write down your office number so I can give it to her?" 

"Of course I have business cards here; this place is my best advertising. I think almost all the members of this club are my patients." 

"I've fallen behind you there," lamented the improbable blonde with a touch of drama to his tone. "_I've_ only treated a few of them." 

"Not everyone needs braces, my dear," replied the one with the eyebrows. "You know your percentages are much higher than mine at the local schools." 

"You make me sound like a pedophile." 

"I consider very little beyond you." 

"Oh, unfair!" 

Duo was laughing openly at this exchange. "I think these are the gayest guys I've ever met," he remarked. 

Heero gave a snorting laugh, and this pulled the others' attention back onto him. "So is this a good luck charm or something?" asked the improbable blonde, gesturing in his turn to Duo. 

The one with the eyebrows added before Heero could answer, "Or maybe he thinks it's a boy magnet." 

"It certainly worked on Quatre, in that case--" the improbable blonde laid a hand on Quatre's shoulder and gave him a teasing shake-- "given that he ran right into him at least twice." 

"Oh, but Heero doesn't _need_ a magnet to attract Quatre, does he?" said the one with the eyebrows. 

"You guys are impossible," laughed Quatre. 

By now they'd reached the changing rooms, and there was a lot of pulling out of fancy thick towels with gold embroidered letters going on. "Ooh, do I get to come into a giant communal shower with all of you guys?" Duo wondered in some excitement. 

"Treize, I'm going to go shower at home," was Heero's indirect answer to this question. "I've got to be somewhere. So if you've got a card I can give my sister..." 

"You don't have to 'be somewhere,'" scoffed Duo. 

Heero was far enough away from his friends that were not in the know, and busy enough with changing clothes, that he was able to mutter, "Yes I do: at home," without their hearing or at least questioning. 

Super Eyebrow Man turned toward the locker from which he'd withdrawn the towel that was now draped over his shoulder. "I guess we'll just have to interrogate Quatre," he said pointedly as he came back out with a business card, which he moved to hand to Heero. 

Quatre's face took on an apologetic look. "Actually, I'm leaving too, as soon as I'm showered and changed; I've got some errands to run." 

Duo mimicked his own previous tone. "You don't have 'errands to run.' You both just want to get out of here before you have to talk about _me_." Quatre smiled, but smoothed it away almost immediately. 

Mr. Sparklehair's expression as he met the eyes under the strange eyebrows could only, Duo thought, have been described as 'smarmy.' "Looks like it'll just be you and me for dinner, Treize," he said. 

"So it does, Mill," replied the one with the eyebrows. "Maybe instead of the restaurant here we should just go home to eat. I seem to remember we didn't finish all of that whipped cream from the other night." 

"That's enough of _that_," Heero said loudly. He was seated and leaning down to deal with his shoes, so Duo, lying on the bench beside him still safety-pinned to a polo shirt, could see his face: his smile looked like it had been formed out of all the component parts of a wince. 

Triumphantly, the improbable blonde chuckled.


	106. Plastic Part 56

Heero managed to get out of the club with only a few more hints that he should really be explaining what Duo was all about and a few more, less subtle hints that he should really be dating Quatre. It had all gone a lot better than he'd been expecting. 

"So help me out here -- is his name 'Mill' or 'Zechs?'" Duo was wondering as they crossed the parking lot. 

"His name is Milliardo," Heero answered, rolling his eyes a little. "'Zechs' is an old nickname from dental school or something, I guess, and that's what everyone but Treize calls him." 

"Those guys are a riot. How did you meet them?" 

"Quatre met them here, actually." Trying as he did so not to let his gym bag squash Duo (who was again in his pants pocket), Heero started fishing for his keys. There was another good thing he hadn't really expected -- very little talk about his car today from his fellow BMW drivers. "I got dragged into it because they needed a fourth for tennis and stuff." 

"But not basketball," Duo recalled. 

"Every once in a while we can convince them. They always act like they've done us a huge favor, though; it's kindof annoying." 

"That doesn't surprise me," chuckled Duo. "They were acting like everything they did was a huge favor to the whole world." 

Heero laughed too. He liked Treize and Zechs well enough, and tolerated their teasing better than he did that of a great many others, but Duo was certainly right about their attitude. 

Once they were in the car and headed home, Duo's first remark was, "You know a lot of really hot people." 

"You think so?" 

"Yeah, definitely. These tennis friends of yours... pretty much all your co-workers -- I mean, I know there's a million women there, but they're mostly pretty hot, for women... and that super nerd has that slick Chinese look going on... and even that other guy... what did you call him... the E.T. guy..." 

Heero had to laugh a little at this. "I'm going to assume you're joking about the IT guy. And I never would have thought to call Wufei 'really hot.'" 

"That's only because he annoys you," Duo stated positively. 

"He certainly does that," Heero agreed. "But, really, he's not my type." 

"Oh? You have a _type_?" Duo asked his next question in a disturbing mix of his usual flirtatious tone and his excellent Wufei imitation: "And what might that be?" 

If Heero himself had been better at flirting, he would have responded immediately, _"Oh, a long braid and impossibly purple eyes."_ As it was, there was no way to answer accurately without encroaching on confessing-a-crush-on-someone-else's-boyfriend territory, so he had to resort to equivocation. "Like you said, Wufei looks very slick, and he has this sort of self-contained look to him that I don't like. I prefer a..." He shrugged, trying to think of the right word. "A more casual look, I guess... something freer, something a little softer-looking, maybe." He gestured vaguely at his head, thinking of Wufei's silly little ponytail. "Looser hair, I think, among other things..." 

"So more like Quatre?" 

Very carefully Heero said, "He's definitely closer to what I like the look of than Wufei is." 

A long, thoughtful silence followed, during which Heero rather hoped they were done with this subject. He didn't really have a fixed opinion on what he found most visually attractive in a man, and at this point any description more specific than the largely incomprehensible one he'd just given would be that of his mental image of Duo as a human. He could probably avoid being forced to admit this by inquiring into what _Duo_ found attractive -- it would be a perfectly natural next step in the conversation -- but he couldn't bring himself to solicit what would undoubtedly turn out to be a general description of Trowa. 

It didn't matter; Duo shifted the topic anyway. "So why _aren't_ you dating Quatre? I mean, I know that's a stupid question -- why aren't you dating _any_ random person you know, right? -- but you guys seem like you're pretty close, and you get along really well, and he's nice and everything..." 

Heero stifled a deep sigh. That everyone at work thought he and Quatre were together was more amusing than anything else, and with Treize and Zechs the quizzing and denial had become something of a tradition... but when _Duo_ started wondering about it, well, that carried an entirely different meaning. Heero didn't care what anyone else thought, but he didn't want Duo expressing the opinion that he and Quatre would make a great pair. And this was the reason he answered with more complete honesty than he'd ever used to respond to that question before: 

"Quatre _is_ nice. And we _do_ get along really well. But there are some things you can put up with in a friend that would drive you crazy in a boyfriend." 

"Oh, really?" Duo sounded intensely interested. "What's little Quatre got going on that would drive poor Heero crazy?" 

"'Little Quatre?'" Heero echoed dryly. 

Duo chuckled somewhat sheepishly. "'Little Quatre' like 'I-can't-think-of-a-better-affectionate-nickname-on-the-spur-of-the-moment Quatre,'" he explained. 

Briefly Heero considered supplying the Japanese 'chan' to meet this particular vernacular need of Duo's, but upon further reflection decided that, in the long run, nobody would thank him for that. Instead he answered Duo's question: "Well, little Quatre is very controlling. I'm not criticizing him for it -- it's why he's so good at his job, and it doesn't really bother me most of the time -- but I don't think I could deal with it in a relationship." 

Duo _hmm_'d thoughtfully, but didn't say whatever he was thinking. Heero supposed he probably shouldn't be disappointed at this, since chances were good that it involved something he would rather not hear... but he was disappointed. So, instead of just asking, passive-aggressive though he knew it was, he supplied more information in the hopes that Duo would do the same: "He and I _did_ kiss once, though..." 

Rather than extracting the private thoughts from Duo, this seemed to extract Duo momentarily from his private thoughts. "Oh, really?" he repeated. "And how was that?" 

Heero shrugged. "It was a long time ago. We thought we might as well try." 

"That good, huh?" Duo was evidently amused that this was the best description Heero could come up with for the experience in question. "Hmm..." And he slipped right back into his previous contemplative silence. 

So Duo thought Wufei was hot and that it would be logical for Heero and Quatre to be dating. How discouraging. Heero tried to remind himself that this was perfectly natural behavior for a friend and only to be expected, but that wasn't really comforting. At the same time, there was nothing to be done about it. 

Duo only came out of his reverie after Heero had gone through a drive-thru and obtained some dinner for himself. Heero liked and rather looked forward to being treated by one of his excessively rich friends to a meal at the fancy club restaurant after tennis, but Duo's comment in the changing room had been absolutely right -- he'd wanted to get out of there before he had to talk about the doll in his pocket -- so Burger King was the order of the evening. And Duo, on realizing he'd missed the opportunity to talk into the speaker (which was evidently something he enjoyed, since the person on the other end had no way of knowing he wasn't human), finally set aside whatever had been occupying his thoughts so thoroughly. 

"You know, I could count on the number of hands and feet I have total the number of times I've eaten at a restaurant." 

"So, four times?" Heero wondered, somewhat amused. 

"Well, three actually. But I could count that _on_ the number of hands and feet I have total. I can't exactly count anything on one hand above, you know, _one_." Duo waved one of his single-piece hands in the air. "But, yeah, cheaper restaurants where anyone could just walk in and get a sandwich or something took a while to get started... and the nicer places were way out of my league." 

"But you managed it three times." Heero was already digging fries out of the bag as he drove; he never managed to get a fast food meal home with any of the fries left. 

"Yeah... after Trowa started making bank but before I got sick of his new lifestyle, he took me to a couple of places. And before that, _years_ before that, there was this one time when we thought we were going to get evicted, and we had no idea where we would go if we did, so I convinced Trowa to blow all the money we had on eating out and pretending we were all high-class, just to make us feel better. We were maybe... seventeenish... at the time, I think." 

"So instead of paying rent with your money so you _wouldn't_ get evicted..." 

Duo laughed sheepishly. "It wasn't that we couldn't pay rent; it was that the guy who owned the building thought he could get better rent out of some family of eight that was looking for a place. You know, in our two rooms." 

"But still, it sounds like you spent your rent money on food instead." 

"It wasn't just _food_... it was an _experience_. The menus were half in French -- which was what got us started on the whole French nickname thing -- and the waiters were all looking down their noses at us, and everything they asked, they asked all sarcastically, like, 'Will you gentlemen have another glass of lemonaid?' -- because we couldn't afford wine or anything, and they might not have let us have it anyway." 

Heero couldn't help laughing. "That still doesn't explain why you spent your rent money on this." 

"Well, it's a long story..." 

And a long story from Duo, Heero decided, even from a Duo that might think Heero ought to be dating Quatre, was the perfect way to spend most of an evening.


	107. Plastic Part 57

  


Sunday was a very lazy day, beginning with Heero sleeping in until around eleven, continuing with some actual watching of TV for once and then some reading aloud, and eventually leading to looking up funny things on the internet while listening to that favorite band of Heero's again. A visit from Trowa in the afternoon was the one thing (apart from Duo suddenly finding himself human again twenty-two days early, of course) that could have made the day pretty much perfect. 

Trowa still seemed inexplicably happier than he had for most of the time since Duo had been reunited with him, and still didn't seem inclined to mention why; but Duo, remembering Quatre's poor performance on the tennis court yesterday, now at least had a theory. Even in this current good mood, Trowa was obviously a little too fragile for much teasing, so Duo wasn't going to mention it if Trowa wasn't -- but he _was_ on the watch. 

What made this particularly interesting was the insight Duo had received yesterday into Quatre's controlling nature, which he thought he could see now that Heero had pointed it out, but which he might not otherwise have noticed for a while. By coincidence, Duo had _just_ been thinking that what Trowa really needed in his life at this stage was someone to take charge of him, to order things for him, to insist that he did what was healthy and _didn't_ do anything guiltily self-destructive. And now Trowa was happier and Quatre was distracted... Well, it could still mean nothing. But _somebody_ was going to have to be teased about it at _some_ point. 

At the moment, Duo was being introduced to the glorious world of lolcats, a style of humor he found, somewhat to his embarrassment, right up his alley. Granted, Heero was also amused, but evidently this was more at Duo's amusement than at the actual 'entertainment.' At least laughter was something Duo had never had a problem with as a doll, though it probably would have been a good deal louder if he'd been human. 

When somebody knocked at the apartment door, Heero muttered, "I thought I saw Quatre go into Trowa's house earlier..." He rose, picked up Duo, and headed out to answer, obviously thinking it odd to have a non-Quatre visitor on a Sunday evening. 

Duo was amused at the picture this painted of Heero's social life (not that it came as any surprise). After confirming Heero's assumption about Quatre, he added in a deliberately bitter tone, "And unless we both fell asleep, he hasn't come back out yet." 

Heero tucked Duo's legs into his jeans pocket as he approached the door; he looked through the little hole, and all Duo could see was the door itself close to his face. "Oh," said Heero. 

"Who is it?" Duo asked unnecessarily. 

Opening the door, Heero disclosed the figure of a woman, who greeted him with a cheerful, "Hi, Heero," and stepped immediately inside. Her Asian features looked vaguely familiar, though Duo had never seen her before, and her voice was one he'd heard while he'd been bent double inside Heero's pocket a week ago. 

"Hi," Heero replied, moving quickly out of the way of both his sister and the large cardboard box she carried. Then he shut the door behind her and turned to watch her place her burden on the kitchen counter. "What's that?" 

"Things I'm getting rid of that I thought you might want," Relena replied. She laughed as she added, "The only time I ever go through things and get rid of stuff I don't need is when I move." 

Duo heard the smile in Heero's answer, "Same here." 

Relena had reached into the box, and now held up some strange device Duo didn't recognize. "You have the same model vacuum I do, don't you? Didn't mama buy them both at the same time?" 

"Yes," Heero replied, reaching out to take the object. "Don't you use this?" 

"No, never, and it's just wasting space. Can you use it?" 

"Well, I already have one..." 

"I'll just take it to Goodwill, then," Relena shrugged. She took whatever it was -- some kind of vacuum attachment, presumably -- from him again and replaced it in the box. "Then there's this..." She started to lift something else out, but at that moment, looking back over at her brother, she caught sight of Duo. Pausing in her movement, then straightening and removing empty hands from the box, she stared at him with that faintly confused expression Duo was so accustomed to. "Heero... why do you have a... Barbie doll? in your pocket?" 

Duo couldn't really see Heero's face from here, but the sound of his sigh was simultaneously defeated and amused. "It's a..." He lifted his hands in a helpless gesture. "It's a long story." 

Relena leaned back against the counter, crossing her arms. "OK. I've got time." 

Heero's little laugh was just as helpless as his previous gesture. "Longer than that, even. You'll probably want to sit down." 

"Wow, are you really going to tell her?" Duo was surprised. He'd gotten the feeling Heero was quite fond of his sister, but hadn't thought things would come to this. 

"Yes," Heero answered him aloud. 

"'Yes' what?" wondered Relena. 

Again Heero gave that defeated little chuckle. "Come sit down." 

With a skeptical look, she did as he said, accompanying him to the couch. "You know, the other reason I came over was just to say I was so sorry about mama the other night. But if she sees you carrying around a Barbie doll, I don't know _what_ she'll do." 

Heero sighed. "You don't have to apologize for her. It's not your fault." 

"Yes, but I feel partly responsible when she's trying to set you up with _my_ roommate, or get you to buy _my_ car. She's really too much sometimes!" 

Heero pulled Duo from his pocket as he settled into one corner of the couch, and held him on his lap. (As an aside, Duo liked being on Heero's lap, and thought he really must try it again as soon as he was human.) "Don't worry about it. She'll calm down eventually, once you guys are all settled and the wedding's over." 

"I hope so. So tell me about this doll." 

"This," Heero said seriously, lifting Duo up to chest height, "is Duo Maxwell. Duo, say hi to my sister." 

So obviously they really were going to do this. With a grin and a wave, Duo said, "Hi, Relena. Good to meet you for real at last." 

She didn't even start, only tilted her head slightly with another, very skeptical look and said in a tone to match, "Douzo yoroshiku, Duo-san." 

"I have no idea what that means," Duo replied cheerfully. 

"Duo was once human, but he's been cursed to live as a doll," Heero broke in, in the flattest voice Duo had ever heard from him, before Relena could supply any more Japanese sarcasm. "To break the curse, he has to stay within five feet of me for a month. We're eight days in." 

For a long, long moment, Relena just stared, and Duo thought she was torn between laughter and reaching out to take Heero's temperature. Finally she reached out instead to take Duo, with whom Heero parted only reluctantly. Then Duo found himself closely examined by eyes the same color but not nearly as attractive as Heero's. 

"You will find," he said, "that I am very good-looking. Also notice the awesome Starfleet uniform, which was a present from your brother because he is awesome." He added with a little sigh as Relena began turning him over and scrutinizing his joints, "Also, I have no speakers or wires or anything. It's easier if you just accept that." 

"I don't know what to say," Relena said at last, slowly. "This is so out there that I have a hard time even thinking it's a joke, but..." 

"It's not a joke." In a somewhat peremptory movement, Heero took Duo back and put him in his lap again. "A while back, I was coming out of work, and I saw Duo lying in the gutter......" 

The story took some time to tell, since Relena fairly constantly demanded clarification and a greater level of detail than Heero was providing (and because Duo had to put in his two cents' worth at every opportunity), and when it was over she still had that somewhat stunned look of disbelief and concern on her face. 

"Well," she said finally. "This was not at all what I expected when I came over here tonight." 

"I can't say I ever expected any of this," Heero replied mildly. 

Relena took a deep breath. "OK, so. Magic is real, you're living with a guy who was turned into a Barbie doll a hundred years ago, and that door over there--" she gestured at Trowa's door, which she hadn't noticed until Heero had pointed it out to her-- "opens onto some other guy's house on the east coast." 

Heero nodded. 

"She's taking it better than you did," Duo remarked. He most particularly liked Relena's use of the phrase 'living with a guy.' 

"Especially for getting it all at once," agreed Heero at a murmur. 

Abruptly Relena stood and turned toward aforementioned door. "OK," she said. "Let's just see about that."


	108. Plastic Part 58

"Quatre has the key," Heero reminded his sister as she marched toward Trowa's door. 

She shook her head, dismissing this concern, and knocked loudly. Heero had to smile; Relena was nothing if not determined. Standing on tip-toe, she peered through the windows into Trowa's entryway and murmured, "Well, there's definitely someone's house in there. Shouldn't there be another apartment on the other side of this wall?" 

"That's right," said Heero. 

"The house isn't on the other side of the wall, though," Duo supplied. 

"And here's Quatre," marveled Relena. 

The door opened, and there, indeed, was Quatre. He looked surprised, but gave Relena a friendly smile as he greeted her. "So I guess you're in on all this now?" 

She nodded slowly, craning her neck slightly to see past him. "I don't know if I believe 'all this' just yet, but this door thing is pretty amazing." 

Quatre grinned. "Well, come in and meet Trowa. We'll have you believing in no time." 

"'Come in,'" Relena echoed faintly. She looked back at Heero, who shrugged, and then, shrugging herself, followed Quatre through the door. 

As it closed behind them, Duo began to laugh. "God... you know... this situation sucks a lot of the time, but a lot of the time it's really funny too." 

Again Heero had to smile. "I'm glad to be able to tell her," he confessed. 

"Maybe it'll make things easier on you." 

"Yeah, maybe." Mostly Heero was glad to be able to confide in his sister, period. With the current tension between him and his parents, it was simply a relief. 

Relena wasn't gone long, which didn't surprise Heero much; he doubted Trowa looked kindly on random strangers appearing in his house. She and Quatre were deep in conversation as they appeared again through the door, and it seemed to be some kind of enthusiastic discussion about magic, so far as Quatre understood it, and what it could do. Evidently Quatre had been true to his word, and Relena was now a believer. 

She broke off, however, the moment she came back into the room. Heading straight for the couch, she bent and took Duo's right hand between her thumb and forefinger. "I'm sorry I was rude before," she said seriously. "It's very nice to meet you, Duo." And she shook his hand. Then she went on in the same level tone, "I find that you are very good-looking, and I notice your Starfleet uniform, and I acknowledge that you have no speakers or wires or anything." 

"Heero," Duo breathed, "I think I'm going to have to marry your sister." 

Everyone laughed, and Relena, releasing the doll's hand, sat back down on the couch. "So I may need to hear the story all over again, now that I believe it," she said. 

"Well," said Quatre, who'd been standing behind Relena and grinning, "I've got a card game to finish, and then I'm going to see if I can convince Trowa to actually get some sleep tonight." 

"A card game, huh?" Duo said loudly (as loudly as Duo was capable, anyway; it was more of a tone, really, than a volume). "Is _that_ what they're calling it these days?" Heero thought there was a touch of bitterness to the tone, and wondered whether Duo recognized the fact that Quatre had a crush on his boyfriend or was simply jealous because he couldn't spend as much time with Trowa as Quatre did. 

Quatre had already turned back toward the door, and acknowledged this pointed statement with only a wave. Soon he was gone. 

"Right, then," said Relena. "Let's hear it all again." 

The next hour and a half passed very pleasantly; strange as the situation was, to be able to share it with Relena was wonderful. Heero thought, too, that she divined a little more of what was going on than he actually articulated: the looks she gave him occasionally seemed to indicate that she was picking up on his unspoken feelings. That came as no great shock... she'd been his first family member to know he was gay, and hadn't expressed any surprise; and she seemed to be one of the few people he knew whose mind it had never crossed that Heero and Quatre were anything more than friends. She simply understood him better than many others. 

Most of the same questions Heero had asked over the weeks Relena now had, and she showed quite a bit of interest in everything the doll said. She was scrupulously polite, to which Duo responded (predictably) by flirting with her the entire time she was there. Silently watching as diplomacy was met with over-the-top flirtation reminded Heero of work parties; but not only did Relena lack the underhandedness of the office diplomats and Duo the desperation and pathos of those that tried to find dates at work parties, there was a sincerity to the friendliness of their words that further foiled the comparison. 

As ten o'clock approached, Relena pulled herself with evident reluctance from the conversation. "I have to get home," she said. Standing, she added to Heero, "You probably need to get to bed, too, if you're going to have another fun day at work tomorrow." And she grinned. She'd been quite amused by the accounts of what Heero had put up with there so far. 

With a short, somewhat bitter laugh Heero stood as well, and followed her over to the kitchen counter. "I'll just leave this here," Relena went on, tapping the box she'd brought. "You can look through it and decide if you want any of it, and I'll come by some other time and grab whatever you don't." 

Heero nodded. "Oh," he said, remembering suddenly. "Hang on." And he went quickly into his bedroom to retrieve off his dresser the business card he'd gotten from Treize yesterday. 

As he returned, Relena was looking at them both thoughtfully. "You really do just pick him up and take him with you everywhere, don't you?" 

Glancing down at Duo in his hand, Heero nodded again and held out the card. 

"Not into the bathroom, though," Duo said sagely. 

Relena laughed, and thanked Heero for the card. "Well, Duo," she said, turning to leave, "it was great to meet you." 

"Yeah, definitely," Duo agreed, waving at her as she opened the apartment door. 

"Oh, yeah, and Heero..." Relena halted and looked back. "There's a book in there; it's a present for you, not something I'm trying to get rid of, since I was pretty sure you didn't have that one." 

"OK," said Heero. "Thanks." 

"See you guys later!" She returned Duo's wave and closed the door behind her as she stepped into the hall beyond. 

Immediately Duo suggested, "Let's see what book it is." There was a mischievous tone to the statement that Heero thought more likely related to the bookshelf where the gift would eventually have to be placed than to the book itself. 

"OK," said Heero again, smiling, and went back to the box. He set Duo down on the counter next to it and began digging through the mismatched contents -- what had led Relena to believe he could use _any_ of this? -- looking for a book. When he found one and saw what it was, he smiled again; this was a very clear symbol of solidarity to accompany the apology regarding their mother. 

"Well, what is it?" asked Duo impatiently. 

"The Tales of Beedle the Bard." Heero held the book up so Duo could see the cover. 

"Harry Potter?" read Duo. "My last kid used to love those books. I thought they were all called 'Harry Potter and the Something of Something,' though." 

Heero explained. 

"So Harry Potter," Duo mused, "must be some of the books you're so embarrassed about on your bookshelf." 

"They're on the bookshelf, but I'm not embarrassed about them anymore." 

"Anymore?" 

Picking the doll up again and heading into the computer room to put the new book in its place, careful not to let Duo see the shelf as usual -- at which Duo made a number of amusing frustrated noises, even as Heero spoke -- Heero elaborated. "Relena was following the series as it came out, and she kept bugging me to read them. She actually bought me copies of all the books that were out at that point, which was the first four. It turned into our sort of inside joke that she wanted me to read Harry Potter and I wasn't interested, and it got so that she was calling me every single day to ask whether I'd started the first one yet. Eventually I figured I'd better do it before her head exploded." 

Duo broke off making annoyed noises in order to guess, "And then it turned out you liked it?" 

"I..." Heero found himself smiling sheepishly as he admitted, "I liked it so much that I read them all in a month and made Quatre read them all too. Then I got the next three at the midnight 'parties' the day they came out." 

Heartily Duo laughed at him. "And then I bet Relena was like, 'I told you so!!'" 

"Yeah, pretty much." Heero had gone back out to turn off the lights in the kitchen and living room and lock the door. "And she went with me to the midnight things." 

"Well, now _I_ want to read them! I've seen some of the movies, and they were boring, but I guess the books are better if you liked them that much." 

"I haven't liked the movies much," said Heero, setting Duo down on the dresser and looking for pajamas. 

"Well, can we read the books?" 

"We have to finish Oz first." 

"But we still have, like, nine of those to go!" 

"We have to finish Oz first," Heero repeated firmly. 

"OK, well, then, can we have some Oz tonight before you go to sleep?" 

Heero glanced at the clock, thinking about what he needed to get done tomorrow morning -- make lunch sandwiches, among other things -- and just how early he would have to get up for that. 

"Pleeaaase?" Duo begged. 

And it turned out there was no part of Heero that could stand up to that word in that tone from that person. "OK," he said. "Maybe just a little."


	109. Plastic Part 59

Quatre had come into Trowa's house to break up a particularly bleak Monday afternoon with the announcement that, as he had meetings all day tomorrow, including through lunch, he was taking an abnormally long break today and they were to have a picnic _right now_. Trowa, in whom the word 'picnic' awakened only a wary avoidant impulse but who wasn't inclined to disagree with Quatre, jumped them to some place Quatre had in mind that turned out to be a nice park somewhere with a lake. 

The neat little sidewalk along which they wandered seemed to be leading over to a playground and some basketball courts, but they left it before it strayed too far from the lake. At this point the latter was eight or ten feet below the level of the path at the bottom of a sort of retaining wall; between this and a railing designed to keep people on the sidewalk, there was a little grassy spot, and on this they sat, dangling their feet over the wall. 

The water down beneath was alive with ducks, to which they dropped little bits of the deli sandwiches Quatre had bought for the occasion. It was cool out, but not cold, and, though there was a distant sound of city traffic, the park was quiet and serene, with no other people about to spoil the atmosphere: all in all, not a bad place and time for the first picnic Trowa had been on in almost a century. 

When he was done eating -- actually, he'd given quite a lot of his lunch to the ducks because they were so funny to watch -- he was more than content to sit still and enjoy the scene. Quatre finished his own sandwich and lemonade, gathered up the wrappers and bottles into the shopping bag in which he'd brought them, then stared complacently down at the lake with a little smile on his face. 

Trowa, who had been looking around at the park and reflecting that being out of the house wasn't nearly so bad when you didn't have to deal with people, eventually found himself watching his companion exclusively. Quatre was swinging his legs, kicking his feet against the brick wall like a little kid in an inexplicably nice business suit, gaze directed intently at the water, hair falling across his face in delicate pale strands that glittered in the sunlight when he moved. Trowa was coming to know well just how firm Quatre was, but he _looked_ so soft... his smooth skin, his perfect lips, the lashes that concealed his downturned eyes... Pushing past the instinct that told him he shouldn't, Trowa reached out. 

As his fingertips brushed, slow and hesitant, across Quatre's chin and over his lips, Quatre raised his head slightly, eyes closed. After this Trowa could feel no breath from him, nor motion either, as if his hand were a rare butterfly that had landed on that fine face as it would on a flower, and Quatre was trying not to frighten it away. Almost without breathing himself, Trowa leaned forward, his hand sliding a little more surely up the far side of Quatre's face. 

Evidently just the very slightest pressure from Trowa's wrist against his jaw was all Quatre had been awaiting, for now he turned and met Trowa's kiss with an unusual gentleness to his commanding enthusiasm, and for a few moments everything in the world was good. Trowa was learning to ignore the prophecies of doom that issued from the darkness in the back of his head at times like this. 

And then somebody on the path behind them commented loudly, "Oh, god, why can't these fucking fags PDA somewhere else?" 

Trowa wouldn't have thought that such a poorly-expressed opinion could have such an effect on him. It wasn't that he was ashamed of being gay -- he'd missed most of the to-do about that issue anyway, and lacked the stigmas -- but he _was_ ashamed of being many other things that he was, things that Quatre shouldn't have to put up with. And it wasn't that he thought there was anything wrong with kissing his boyfriend, wherever they happened to be -- though admittedly he probably couldn't have done it if he'd known there were people around -- but he _did_ have issues with being in this relationship in the first place. 

Not to mention that this was the first time he'd _ever_ kissed _anyone_ in a public place, and practically the first time he'd made this sort of overture toward Quatre rather than its being the other way around... and what was the result? _The first time?_ What was the universe trying to tell him? It just seemed to confirm all of his worries about this situation. 

His impulse was to pull away, but Quatre, whose hand had come to rest on Trowa's shoulder, held him firmly still as he asked very quietly, "Can you teleport us to some place in my head if we're in free-fall?" 

"Probably..." 

"Get ready, then." And Quatre released him, stood up, and turned in one smooth movement. In a louder and much harsher tone he added, "I can't take any more of this harassment." 

A little puzzled, Trowa also stood. Half-turning, he saw a couple of boys on the path watching them in a mixture of scorn and curiosity. They appeared to be high-school-aged, but, as he had no idea what time zone they were in, Trowa couldn't guess whether or not this meant they were truants. One of them carried a basketball, making their destination obvious; they probably found this nearly-empty park convenient for their game, especially if they were, in fact, skipping school. 

He felt Quatre's arms slide around his chest and cling tightly, heard Quatre announce in the same unhappy voice, "This life just isn't worth it anymore!" And then, startlingly, he was off-balance, flying, falling, when Quatre unexpectedly pushed off and sent them both plunging from the wall toward the lake. 

Usually Trowa avoided deliberate use of magic in front of non-magical people, as it tended to do more harm than good, but at this point it was either that or actually fall into the water. Apart from the general discomfort this would cause and the fact that Trowa didn't really know how to swim, Quatre's nice suit would be ruined. So he concentrated on the nearness of Quatre and the idea that Quatre knew where they were going, and spoke the spell as quickly as he could. Still it was some sort of miracle, he thought, that they didn't hit the water before the weightlessness kicked in. 

He'd been concerned that, practically horizontal as they were, they would fall hard onto concrete or a wood floor or some other unpleasant surface wherever they arrived, but Quatre was becoming an expert at envisioning destinations; they landed on something soft, bounced a little, and came to rest quite comfortably. 

Quatre leaned up and kissed Trowa on the cheek. "Well done," he said. 

Trowa, who had begun looking around to ascertain where they were, turned back to the man in his arms and replied, "That was taking an awful chance." 

With a dark chuckle unlike anything Trowa had ever heard from him, Quatre said, "It was the best I could come up with on such short notice. I had to do _something_." He snuggled into Trowa with an air simultaneously annoyed and self-satisfied; the unconstraint of this gesture suggested to Trowa that the bedroom in which they now found themselves was Quatre's own. 

"I doubt it accomplished anything. Your performance was not very convincing." 

Again Quatre gave that unusual, vindictive laugh. "If it made them panic thinking they'd contributed to someone's suicide attempt, even just for one second, then that's good enough. At the very least they'll be confused because we disappeared." 

Trowa smiled against the top of Quatre's head, and went back to examining the room. 

It was nicely furnished. The bed on which they lay, a dresser, and a large desk nearby were all antiques, but it took Trowa, whose own life was so full of dated things and whose eyes were so accustomed to eclectic decorating, a moment to realize this. These well preserved walnut pieces had probably come from before even his time, and looked like a matched set. 

It was also scrupulously neat and clean. From the wooden model vehicles on their little shelves -- remnants of a childhood hobby of Quatre's? -- to the meticulously well-organized surface of the desk -- Trowa, though no real expert on human behavior, hadn't thought it _physically possible_ to keep a computer desk that neat -- to the books that stood in a size order that was probably only secondarily alphabetical, there was no trace of dust or anything that appeared to be the slightest bit out of place. 

Even the two items that adorned the walls where they were free of shelves -- one an amateur landscape on canvas and the other a bulletin board tiled with photos -- had their edges aligned with the seams of the vertical wood paneling so perfectly that if Trowa hadn't known better he would have thought magic was involved. Everything here was so pointedly, precisely charming somehow... very much like Quatre himself. And here Trowa was lying on Quatre's _bed_... and Quatre was kissing him again, starting with his neck and ear and moving over his face to his mouth. 

Last Friday's excursion into the realm of sexual activity had left Trowa very definitely interested in further exploration. His guilt hadn't disappeared, and he certainly wasn't ready to take any sort of initiative in the matter, but now when Quatre was this close to him he was conscious of sensations he hadn't felt in he didn't remember how long. Quatre was like spring sunlight after a very long winter, and in more ways than just this; now, as Quatre kissed him leisurely and kept them tight against each other with a firm arm, Trowa felt his blood heating and his skin tingling. 

By the time Quatre left Trowa's lips to the cool, hungry air and put his mouth instead by Trowa's ear to murmur, "I want you to do something for me," Trowa was ready to comply with any request at all. 

At Trowa's futile attempt to articulate this sentiment, Quatre chuckled and kissed him on the nose. Then he pulled away, disappointingly, and propped himself up on an elbow. "If you can," he amended. "Would you make your door open onto this room?" He gestured. "I'd like to be able to come see you without having to go through Heero's apartment." 

Thinking that he would also like this, Trowa readily agreed, despite having been hoping for a more interesting request. And as Quatre was now sitting up beginning to look around in a very practical fashion, thus negating the possibility of any such interesting activities, Trowa joined him in this with as good a grace as he could command. 

Quatre, it seemed, had made sure to keep his hand on the bag containing their trash from lunch when they'd jumped here, something Trowa definitely wouldn't have thought of, and now he took this up again from where he'd let it fall, and went to throw it away beside the desk. And as he did so he remarked, "I don't have a single empty spot on my walls that's big enough to put a door into." 

"No," Trowa agreed. "But that won't be a problem, if you don't mind me using your closet door." 

"How will that work?" 

"It will be like my door from the inside; you'll just have to concentrate on what you want it to open onto." 

Quatre grinned. "Well, I didn't really need that closet anyway." 

Trowa had already turned toward the door in question and begun to run through the necessary magic in his mind before he realized what Quatre meant, and by then it was too late to try to think of an appropriate response. He really wasn't very good at this flirting thing. But the remark did please him, and, as he set about preparing for the first spell he was to cast, he smiled a little.


	110. Plastic Part 60

  


If Quatre had known how long the door-linking would take, he wouldn't have requested it of Trowa so close to the time he'd had to leave. And if he'd known how ritualistic a spell it was, how much effort it required of its caster, he might not have requested it at all. He hadn't wanted to stop Trowa, however, once the process was started, because working out complicated magic seemed to be something Trowa genuinely enjoyed -- and _almost_ without attendant guilt, apparently -- and Quatre wouldn't take that experience from him for the world. 

But it _had_ been necessary for him to rush away the very moment Trowa was finished, hurrying to get back to work in something like a timely fashion and leaving a lot of things unsaid. Things like, _"It's amazing to watch you do that,"_ and, _"That is so sexy,"_ and half a million questions concerning the various elements of the ritual and their purpose. Fortunately, these could all be expressed after work (and after the near-perfect distraction of thinking about it all afternoon _during_ work). 

It was with great pleasure that Quatre headed toward his own house rather than Heero's apartment upon leaving the office, for the first time in... how long had it been? A week? It wasn't that he minded spending a lot of time at Heero's apartment -- he'd _always_ spent a lot of time at Heero's apartment -- but having direct access to Trowa's front door from his bedroom was a delightfully more intimate arrangement that he was looking forward to taking advantage of. 

There was a joke somewhere in getting into his boyfriend's house through his closet door, but Quatre couldn't quite put it together. Duo probably could have; Quatre would have to mention it to him at some point just to see what he would say. Except that, as far as Quatre knew, neither Duo nor Heero was aware of any of this. 

Trowa, evidently out of some erroneous sense that this constituted a betrayal of some sort, hadn't yet been able to bring himself to tell Duo -- though Quatre understood he'd gone over there a few times hoping he could manage it -- and Quatre had continually failed to mention it to Heero for various reasons. Which meant six days of Heero unnecessarily under the false impression that Duo and Trowa were still in love... six days of Quatre being a terrible person and a miserable friend. He would really have to fix that. 

Not right now, though. 

Trowa was in his study, in his chair, at his table, with his head bent over a book, but there was about him that look of just having begun to move that indicated he hadn't been working at least a minute ago, if not all evening. Quatre was aware that the dilution of the amount of work Trowa got done was due in large part these days to the distraction that came from being involved with Quatre... he couldn't help feeling a little bad about this, but at the same time, it was _much_ better than how things had previously been. 

Actually, it looked as if Trowa might just have awakened from another chair-bound nap, which was, on the scale of ways Trowa could spend his time, far toward the desirable end. As was beginning to be something of a custom, Quatre came over and sat down on Trowa's lap in the chair. 

"I take back every negative thought I ever had about this chair," he said as he did so. "I'm really quite fond of it now." 

Trowa, accepting Quatre's embrace, paused in the act of reciprocating and asked, "What didn't you like about it?" 

"It's probably the ugliest thing I've ever seen," Quatre answered seriously, running a hand across the tassels on the underside of one of the arms. 

"Is it?" Trowa seemed genuinely surprised. 

Quatre laughed and kissed him. When he'd finished with that he told him, "Well, like I said, I like it now." 

They discussed then what Trowa had and hadn't gotten done on his book today, as well as a few minor and largely uninteresting points of Quatre's day at work, and finally, at Quatre's insistence, Trowa explained in detail the spell he'd cast earlier. 

Quatre very much enjoyed it when Trowa talked about magic. For one thing, Trowa seemed to enjoy it too, and there weren't a lot of things about which that could be said, and even fewer he could be said to enjoy without immediately hating himself for it. But there was also the simple fact that Quatre found it all very interesting, and Trowa's knowledge and understanding very impressive. 

This particular spell, though Trowa claimed it was not difficult, was very involved, and required, as Quatre had noticed earlier, a good deal of energy -- especially since it drew upon two different branches of magic, one of which was not Trowa's specific area of skill. Hence, as well, its ritualistic nature. 

Really it seemed to be a number of spells wrapped up in one, and the only reason Trowa had even known how to do it was that one of his followers had once built him a new computer in exchange for his working it out so her boyfriend could accept the promotion he'd been offered and still visit her two states away during her last college term. Evidently the couple had broken up not long after, and at least one of them still owed Trowa a favor for his subsequent dismantling of the spell. 

Trowa's explanations often required fairly extensive elaboration, since Quatre didn't understand a lot of the magical terms he used, and the conversation expanded into one about magic and its various branches. It was extremely engrossing and fascinating, and Quatre had to try his hardest not to act like a raving fanboy. _Some_ expression of appreciation was definitely called for, however, and this Quatre was more than ready to give. Of course this diluted the discussion even further, but neither of them was complaining. 

When the clock in the entry struck four, however, Quatre jumped up in some distress. "Why is this the first time I've heard the clock?" he demanded of no one. "I mean, it only makes noise every fifteen minutes." Turning, he pulled Trowa out of the chair to join him standing. "_You've_ been distracting me again." 

"I'm sorry," Trowa offered, and Quatre was glad to find that he seemed a lot more facetious about it than the last time they'd had an exchange like this. Quatre grinned and kissed him, then headed out for the entry. As he still held Trowa's hand, Trowa was forced to follow. 

Given that it was 1AM in his time zone and he had meetings all day tomorrow where he really would have to pay attention, he'd been planning on a relatively quick goodnight and immediate departure... but he found that the kiss just now had been enough only to make him want more. So, since a _slightly_ longer goodnight could not really worsen things, he turned to face Trowa again with a playful smile and slowly backed him into the wall. 

Trowa's hands came to rest on the small of Quatre's back as Quatre pushed up against him and kissed him slowly and deeply, and Quatre raised his own hands to tangle into Trowa's smooth hair. He made a satisfied noise as he squirmed slowly, grinding Trowa against the hard surface behind him, then released his lips and began nibbling on his ear instead. 

"Oh..." breathed Trowa, apparently somewhat inadvertently. Shifting slightly, Quatre realized exactly why this was. 

He looked Trowa in the eye with a smile and a raised brow as he ran the back of his hand very lightly over the sudden bulge in Trowa's pants. "I wasn't even grinding all that hard," he teased. 

"But earlier... We were on your bed, and... ever since then..." 

Now Quatre's brows contracted in an expression of both amusement and pity. "You should have said something before! I don't have time now!" Though admittedly if Trowa were to ask him to stay, Quatre would not require much convincing to do so, meetings or no meetings tomorrow. 

Trowa did not ask. He didn't even complain. He merely nodded. Quatre was disappointed, but not terribly surprised. And that was when he was struck with a thought. 

"So I've got to go," he said, and, though his mouth had spread into a wider smile, his tone was almost businesslike. "But I want you to be sure and take care of this, OK?" 

For a moment Trowa didn't seem to understand, but eventually he began, "Oh, I don't..." And it wasn't even a tone of protest, simply a statement of fact. 

"I know you don't," Quatre murmured, leaning up close to Trowa's ear, "but this time I want you to. I want you to think all about how _I_ would be taking care of it if I didn't need to get home and go to bed." His voice dropped even lower as he finished, "I want you to think about _me_ while you're doing it." 

Drawing back, he gave Trowa his least innocent smile. Was it his imagination, or was there a touch of color, for once, to Trowa's pale cheeks? Trowa was staring fixedly at him, eyes unblinking and mouth slightly ajar; Quatre had no doubt that he had _never_ been given such an order before in his long life. 

"Good night," Quatre said cheerily, and turned completely away. 

One thing was certain: _Quatre_ was definitely thinking of _Trowa_ as he went to sleep. He wondered if Trowa would do as he was told, and whether it would be admissible, tomorrow after work, to make him describe it. 

Tomorrow came as early as usual, after a string of particularly provocative dreams, and Quatre could tell already that he was going to have to make an effort not to be horribly distracted all day long. His usual jogging circuit, his shower, and his drive to work were already full of thoughts of Trowa, even when Quatre was specifically trying to concentrate on the day ahead of him. And it didn't get any better when he was settled in at the first of his many meetings with a cup of iced coffee and already having a hard time focusing on the words of the program director addressing them all. With a monumental effort of will, he dragged his mind off the memory of Trowa's mouth against his and tried to do his job properly. 

The one o'clock meeting at the downtown office was destined to be the worst, as it involved many of those most likely to take note of Quatre's state. He'd picked up lunch for himself and his father -- the only two people that would be physically present at this location -- and made it there on time, but, as his father hadn't arrived yet, had almost immediately slipped back into daydreams without even a struggle. 

"Oh, Quatre, you're all ready to go," was his father's greeting as he came into the office. 

"Hmm?" wondered Quatre a little absently. Then, figuratively shaking himself, he blushed. It wasn't that there was anything inherently wrong or embarrassing about his thoughts; it was just that this man was both his father and his boss, and here Quatre was a million miles away thinking about sex on company time. 

If Mr. Winner noticed that Quatre was particularly distracted, he made no comment at the moment. Instead he bent his white head over the bags on the table to see what Quatre had brought him for lunch while Quatre double-checked the distance conference setup. Soon they were connected to the other regional managers, and, since nearly all of them were family, commencing the relatively unprofessional series of greetings and superficial catchings-up that came at the beginning of every meeting held at this level of the corporation. Quatre dug into his lunch and tried not to fall behind. 

When the meeting properly started, he felt he was doing fairly well -- but just the fact that there was still a part of his brain analyzing how much attention he was paying to his work showed that another part still pointedly wasn't. Overall, however, he thought he kept his thoughts off of Trowa and what he'd like to do to Trowa, and made the expected contributions to the discussion, fairly well. 

At least, that was the impression he had of his own performance right up until the moment his father reached out to shut off the projector that had been bringing them the sights and sounds of their familial co-workers, and turned slowly toward him with a conspicuously skeptical look. He didn't even have to wonder; he went straight to the point. "So what's his name?" 

Quatre grinned sheepishly and turned back toward his laptop to close his programs. "Trowa," he answered. "Trowa Barton." 

His father nodded slowly. "Is he rational?" 

Although Quatre knew that by this he meant, "Does he have a steady job and no socially unacceptable or self-destructive tendencies?" he chose to answer in the affirmative. He didn't feel like trying to explain all about Trowa at this point. 

"Nice?" his father wondered next, and there was an edge to the word. He hadn't approved of most of the guys Quatre had dated so far. 

Again Quatre wasn't sure that an unqualified 'yes' was really the correct answer, but gave it anyway. 

"And this is the real reason you took that week off," his father went on. 

Quatre felt a little bad continually giving these half-truths, but what else could he say besides another yes? 

His father's white-mustached mouth spread into an amused grin. "Well, it's obvious that you're very fond of this one. You should bring him by sometime so your mother and I can meet him." 

Quatre smiled. "OK, I will." 

"And in the meantime," his father continued in a more pointed tone (though without any unkindness), "pull yourself together! I thought I was going to have to reach over and shake you a couple of times today!" 

"Sorry!" Quatre gave an embarrassed laugh. "I'm usually not quite this bad..." 

"Oh?" His father raised a brow. "And what happened last night that's left you so distracted today in particular?" 

"Nothing much," Quatre told him honestly. "It was more something that got me thinking about what might happen later." 

"So you're not sleeping with this boy yet?" 

"Dad! You're not allowed to ask that!" 

"When it concerns both my son's happiness and my Pacific Division Regional Manager's productivity, I'm allowed to ask anything I want." Mr. Winner was smiling, and there was no real reproof in the statement. 

"Well, don't worry," Quatre said, returning the smile. "Everything's going great. And I swear I'm not usually this distracted." 

His father gave him a significant look. "Just make sure you do what you have to to keep it that way. I don't want to see my little boy in another bad relationship, _or_ one of my excellent managers falling behind." 

"Thanks," said Quatre, pleased at hearing himself called an excellent manager. "Maybe you'll meet him one of these days, and then you can see what you think." 

His father nodded and rose. "I'll see you at home later," he said. "Oh, and don't forget to send me those compiled reports; I still want to look over that." 

"I'm going to head back to Lex," Quatre told him, "so I'll be able to put those together and send them before I go home." 

"Good. Thanks. Later, then." And Mr. Winner left the room. 

Quatre continued to smile after him for a moment before turning to clean up their lunch things and partially dismantle the computer setup they used for these cross-country meetings. A secretary would deal with the components, but Quatre liked to make sure it was taken apart properly before he left -- it made things easier in the long run. 

_"Do what you have to to keep it that way,"_ huh? Quatre was more than pleased at having such a father... and pretty sure he knew exactly what he was going to do about Trowa before the week was up.


	111. Plastic Part 61

Heero was becoming fairly skilled at getting rid of Wufei. Wednesday's encounter seemed as if Wufei wanted it to involve a discussion of Star Wars and probably its merits relative to Star Trek... but, although Heero was a good deal more familiar with one than the other and might at least have known what Duo and Wufei were arguing here, he discovered to his great surprise that Duo was almost entirely ignorant of Star Wars. 

So, as Heero really only knew Star Wars casually and couldn't hope to meet Wufei in a discussion of it, he disentangled himself from the conversation with what he thought was growing expertise. 

This necessitated Heero clarifying the whole Star Wars thing to Duo at lunch, as Duo, though he had, of course, heard of it, wasn't even certain how many movies there were. He got very excited upon learning there were six, and eventually, smiling, Heero promised to rent them all for him to watch. After this their conversation drifted into comfortable silence. 

He imagined Duo, once the curse was broken and he had freedom of movement and of choice, tracking down every single sci-fi movie he'd never seen. Actually, there were a lot of things he could imagine Duo doing as a non-doll, and some of them seemed mutually exclusive. 

With this in mind, Heero eventually asked idly, "So what will you do when you're human again?" 

He'd been expecting Duo to mention, if not all the movies he planned on watching, at least the foods he planned on eating and the sleep he planned on getting; Duo's actual answer, "Move in with Trowa, I guess," was something of an unpleasant surprise. "I can't wait to see that weird house of his," Duo went on with discouraging enthusiasm. "Quatre says he's still got a Victrola. And you'll be glad to have me out of your hair, too." 

Feeling that some response was required, Heero muttered something about Duo being no trouble. 

"Oh, bullshit," was Duo's relatively cheerful reply. "You're a trooper, but don't think I can't see how much this sucks for you. I'll be buying you lunch every day for a year, remember?" 

It occurred to Heero that, if hearing Duo talk about Trowa was bothering him _now_, a _human_ Duo, affable and oblivious and flirtatious and probably extremely hot and _still_ talking about Trowa, would drive him right over the edge. How in the world was he going to deal with this once Duo's curse was broken? Would it even be possible for him to be around Duo at that point? 

"That was just a joke," he said, more shortly than he'd intended. "You don't really have to do that." 

"Oh, I... OK." Duo seemed a little surprised at this, but recovered almost immediately. "Since when do _you_ make jokes?" 

"It does happen sometimes." 

"Well, good. Good to know." And they drifted again, though this silence was, at least to Heero, far less comfortable. 

It was easier to make it back to work in a timely fashion after an exchange like that. He'd been pleased with himself for leaving to go to lunch and getting back from it on time every day so far this week, but today he could hardly take any credit for it, and there was no pleasure in it. 

He thought Quatre must still be having a hard time with punctuality, though -- and no wonder, if he was making a twenty-minute drive to Heero's apartment and another one back -- and today seemed to be no exception, as the email Heero received from him that afternoon came at around two thirty. The subject read, _Personal stuff I probably shouldn't be emailing you about at work_, at which Heero smiled faintly as he opened the message. Then the latter started out with, _Insofar as the word applies, Trowa and I are now dating_, and Heero got no farther than this for a very long time. 

Stunned, he read that line over and over and over until eventually the symbols on the screen in front of his eyes lost all meaning, after which he simply sat and stared. Finally, though, dragging himself out of that red-hot rut, he forced his eyes and brain to concentrate, and read on. 

_This started last Tuesday, and I'm sorry I haven't let you know sooner. I've meant to tell you every single day, but I didn't think it was a good idea to announce right in front of Duo that it's OK for you to put the moves on him, and when you two weren't around I'll admit it just slipped my mind. Please understand that I was distracted, not indifferent._

_Trowa says that he and Duo were in love in the 20's (god, that's strange to write), and that the whole argument that started all of this was about each other, not about the woman. But they were never actually together, and it's all over now._

_So my point is that I hope things go as well for you as they are for me._

_\--Quatre_

Heero sat back. He restrained himself with an iron will from looking down at Duo, who would surely remark upon it if Heero turned a shocked and horrified gaze on him. 

_Trowa and I are now dating._

_He and Duo were in love in the 20's._

_"Move in with Trowa, I guess."_

He remembered what Duo had told him about Trowa on Saturday: _"He seemed really... agitated. But not in a bad way. He didn't tell me anything that would explain it."_ Well, now Heero had the explanation. 

Quatre may have thought he was giving Heero good news and a green flag; not having spent nearly as much time with Duo, he couldn't have known the burden he was placing on his friend's shoulders. Because this was obviously going to be just as much news to Duo as it was to Heero, and not the good kind. 

_But they were never actually together, and it's all over now._

Could Quatre really know that? Heero found himself grinding his teeth. He had a feeling Trowa understood the situation better than Quatre did; Trowa _must_ be aware of how Duo still felt about him, or else why hadn't he mentioned his involvement with Quatre on one of the several occasions when he'd talked to Duo since last Tuesday? He knew -- _he knew_, and he'd been too cowardly to say anything about it. 

Unfortunately, this was a cowardice that Heero could easily comprehend. Duo had been waiting _so long_, putting that cheerful face on just about the worst situation Heero could imagine, probably staving off insanity only with the hope that he and Trowa would someday be together again... how on _earth_ could you tell someone in such a predicament that the man he'd been waiting for, putting all his hope in, faithfully thinking of for eighty-seven years... the man he was in love with... had abandoned him for someone else? 

And how on earth had it fallen to Heero's lot to be the one to tell him? 

He _did_ spare a thought or two for Quatre, wondering vaguely whether this would turn out well for him. Quatre had a history of attracting emotionally high-maintenance guys that wanted their lives lived for them -- people with huge issues they weren't willing even to _attempt_ to solve for themselves, boyfriends that would request Quatre's presence at any inconvenient time for support and comfort but offered very little (if anything) in return... Heero couldn't help feeling some doubt that Trowa would be any better than the previous lineup. 

But Quatre could -- and did -- take care of himself. Heero couldn't dwell on this subject long, since the issue of the doll sitting on the desk beside him was nearly all-consuming. He risked a look down at Duo, who at that moment happened to have his head turned in another direction and didn't see, and felt his heart clench with a stabbing sense of pity and sorrow. He couldn't do it; he couldn't bring himself to hurt Duo by telling him this news. It had to be done, of course, but right now, today, Heero was certain he could not manage it. 

_"Move in with Trowa, I guess."_

What was he going to do about this?


	112. Plastic Part 62

Heero, Duo found, was still not in the best mood on Thursday. Duo wanted to bother him to find out what had been bothering him, but, after Heero's remark yesterday about the whole lunch-for-a-year thing having been a joke, didn't feel he was quite to the point where he could pry into such personal matters. Which was disheartening when, if you'd asked him on Tuesday, he would have said that he probably _had_ reached that point. 

But, then, that remark had been disheartening in general. Every time he started to think that maybe... 

Well, it didn't matter. Heero was breaking the curse for him; Heero was his friend; that should be enough. When Heero was already giving him so much, Duo shouldn't be bitter about not getting more. And he could enjoy Heero's company no matter what was or wasn't likely to come of it, and, to some extent, no matter what Heero's mood. 

The latter, at least, did improve as the day progressed. Heero was still a good deal more quietly pensive than usual at lunch (which Duo tried to make up for by being twice as cheerful himself), but by mid-afternoon his normal demeanor seemed to be back in place. Duo thought it helped that not a single person had come by to stare or ask stupid questions today. That was a first -- although, as Heero had hoped it would, the harassment had slowed up quite a bit this week. People still gave the doll funny looks when they came seeking Heero's help, but they'd stopped showing up specifically to see Duo. 

Of course Live Long And Prosper Guy was still around, but he was a separate category: he didn't come to see Duo, but rather to find out Heero's thoughts on tanar'ri, baatezu, and censorship. When Heero had no idea what he was talking about (and was forced to admit it, since Duo didn't either), the guy didn't appear at all put out, as his real purpose seemed simply to have been to rant about it to someone. Heero tolerated him for a while, and then dismissed him with the threat of Dorothy. 

Heero still had to hasten through the door when the day was over, though; Hazard A Guess Guy had been eyeing him at around five o'clock lately as if he might want to corner him on his way out and talk more nerd at him. Today, at least, they made it downstairs and out to Heero's car safely, and as they commenced the homeward drive, Heero mentioned, apparently more to himself than his companion, that it was the fifteenth. 

"How many days left?" asked Duo. 

After only half a moment's thought Heero answered, "Eighteen. But the fifteenth is bill day, so you'll have to watch TV or something for a while." 

"Nooooo!" Duo cried. "Not TV!" As he'd hoped, this made Heero smile a little. 

Unusually, Heero didn't change clothing when he got home. Duo hadn't ever been able to decide whether he liked the t-shirts and jeans or the suit and tie better, and was glad to have regular exposure to both, but he did wonder at the reason for this behavior today. When Heero explained briefly that looking over his bills felt like work, Duo had to restrain a laugh at this interesting compartmentalism of thought. 

Bill time didn't last very long; evidently it was more a financial checkup than any real sort of diagnosis and treatment. That seemed like a good idea, if you happened to have money; Duo had never had enough in his life to give much thought to budgeting. He wasn't terribly surprised that Heero was responsible about this sort of thing, though. 

There was actually no TV involved, since most of what Heero was looking at was on the computer. Evidently to Heero's great annoyance, however, the one thing he still couldn't do from home was pay his rent -- which meant that the last part of bill day was walking down to the apartment office to put an enveloped check into the night drop-box. 

"I only even _have_ a checkbook anymore for rent," Heero complained as he turned away from this successful operation and directed his steps toward the mailboxes up the hill. "_Everything_ else I either have set up on an automatic payment, or else I can do it online." 

Duo laughed. "The internet makes life so much easier for anti-social people, doesn't it?" 

"I am not anti-social," Heero said calmly -- but it was a hopeless calm that bespoke the frequent repetition of this sentiment. 

"Reclusive, then." 

Heero made a doubtful sound. "I guess I'll accept that." 

"I'm sorry?" As she pulled something from her own mailbox, a woman that Duo, at least, had not noticed as they approached looked up with this startled query. 

"Oh..." Heero sounded embarrassed. "No, I was talking to myself... sorry." 

The woman smiled and went back to what she was doing. Duo tried not to laugh. It would have been even funnier, probably, if she had noticed him in the pocket of Heero's slacks, but it was already pretty entertaining. He didn't want to make Heero feel bad, though. 

Heero, Duo had noticed, rarely checked his mail, probably because the boxes were on the other side of the complex from where he lived and not even on his way in from the parking lot. The few times he had gone out there while Duo had been here with him, he'd come back practically overloaded with mail, most of which he threw away. Duo supposed it made sense, if Heero managed almost all his finances online, that he didn't care much what he got in the paper mail. Now he took his armful of what looked like a large collection of coupons and whatnot and headed back to his own apartment without daring to speak to Duo again. Once inside, he began sorting through the mail on the counter, grumbling softly about the excessive amount of junk. 

Duo was just beginning to ask whether it was possible to live without a mailing address when Heero suddenly went still, looking at an envelope he'd just picked up. Duo, who was sitting on the counter facing him, could easily see the slow smile growing on his face into an expression that looked happier than anything Duo had seen there all day. Duo broke off what he'd been saying to ask, "What is it?" 

"It's for you." Heero turned the off-white envelope around and held it down where Duo could see it. 

Duo found himself unable to speak as he stared at the rounded handwriting that spelled out his name above Heero's address. Abruptly he was feeling all the incapacitation of being choked up without a throat to give him the actual sensation. Somebody had sent him mail, just as if he were a normal human being. Somebody had written out his name over an actual address on a real envelope, put a stamp on it, and _mailed_ it to him. What he finally managed to say, inappropriately, was, "Shit...!" 

Heero laughed. "How long has it been since you got mail?" 

"I don't know... ninety years?" Again he was having speech difficulties with nothing physical to excuse them. "And there wasn't all that much of it for people like me back then anyway..." 

"Want me to open it?" Heero's eyes rested on Duo with interest. Duo was almost certain that, despite his limited plastic facial expression, exactly what this meant to him was plain to Heero. 

"Let me look at it for one more second," Duo said breathlessly. 

Heero laughed again and complied, allowing Duo to look his fill at his own name, at the physical stamp featuring a basket of purple pansies and the word 'love,' at the post office stamp atop that, at the lack of return address. Duo got the feeling Heero knew where it had come from, but he wouldn't for the world have asked and spoiled the best surprise he'd had since Trowa had walked into this very room and back into his life after eighty-seven years. 

"OK," he said finally, when the excitement and interest and pleasure had made him almost giddy, "open it." As Heero's hands moved, Duo added hastily, "But don't mangle the envelope or anything, OK? I want... I mean, do you mind if I keep it?" 

"It's your mail, Duo," Heero replied with a smile as he neatly slit the top of the envelope with a butter knife he'd had out for this purpose. "You can do whatever you want with it." 

"Well, in your space..." 

Instead of answering, Heero pulled a card from the envelope and held it out for Duo to see. 

What to expect from this Duo really hadn't had the faintest idea. The number of people that could have addressed the envelope was incredibly small, and its contents, however much they meant to Duo, were unlikely to be particularly intrinsically meaningful. Or so he'd thought. 

Inside the card's low-relief floral border, it read in gold script, "The honor of your presence is requested at the marriage of Relena Yuy and Colin Elwynn Morris, Saturday, July 10th, 2010," followed by the name and address of an Episcopal church in the area. 

If Duo had been capable of it, he would have cried. The only written invitation to anything he remembered _ever_ having received before had been in crayon and delivered simultaneously to two Barbies and a teddy bear. A mailed invitation to a wedding was something people sent to their real, normal, human friends. And he'd only met Relena just the once! Such kindness and thoughtfulness was unexpected and overwhelming. 

"The actual wedding, even," Heero murmured. "Not just the reception. And she knows you'll be human again by then too." He sounded impressed and pleased, and Duo in turn was pleased that his happiness at this was making Heero happy -- especially as it seemed to have erased the last lingering traces of Heero's previous mood. 

"Can you call her?" Duo requested eagerly. "I need to ask her to marry me."


	113. Plastic Part 63

Relena picked up just when Heero was sure the call was going to go to voicemail. "Hey, Heero," she greeted him. 

"Hi," Heero replied, and went on in Japanese. "I called to tell you Duo got your invitation." 

"Wow, really?" Relena complied with his oblique request not to speak English. "Already?" 

"Yeah. I wanted you to know how much he appreciates it. I don't think he's ever been invited to a wedding before, and he says he hasn't gotten mail in ninety years." 

"I thought that might be the case. I thought it would be nice for him to have something happy to look forward to going to with regular people once he's not a doll anymore." 

Said doll was making frustrated noises at not being able to understand anything Heero was saying, waving his arms in odd patterns in the air. 

"Yes, definitely," Heero agreed, smiling at Duo's antics. "It means a lot to him. You don't realize how happy you've made him." 

"And that makes _you_ happy," Relena guessed, sounding smug. 

"Yes," admitted Heero. 

"And you're talking to me in Japanese because you haven't told _him_ yet that you like him and you're embarrassed to say this kind of thing in front of him." 

To be honest, Heero was a little embarrassed even to be saying it in Japanese, and had turned half away from Duo to hide his face. "Anyone listening to you would think you'd grown up with me," he said with dry humor. 

She chuckled. "I thought so." 

"Whenever you Japs are finished with your top secret conversation," Duo said loudly, "I want to talk to Relena!" 

"Whenever you plastic dolls are finished with your racial slurs," Heero retorted, "maybe I'll let you." 

"Oh," said Duo. "Is that a..." He paused for a moment. "I guess it is. Sorry!" 

"You even lived through World War II. You should know this." 

"Yeah, but at that point I was busy raising a family of stuffed animals bigger than I was with a porcelain doll named Shirley!" Duo protested. "But, still, I'm sorry. I'll never say it again." 

Relena was laughing. "I'm only hearing bits and pieces of this, but it sounds wonderful." 

"He wants to talk to you." 

"Well, let him!" 

Heero looked down at Duo solemnly. 

"I'm really sorry." By now Duo sounded a little distressed. "I promise I won't say it again." 

It was impossible to keep up a stern expression when faced with a penitently worried Duo, and Heero hadn't actually been much offended anyway. "It's OK," he said with smile, and lowered the phone to the doll's level, placing it in what he thought would be the best position for the hearing and being heard of those involved in the subsequent conversation. 

"Hi, Relena!" was Duo's greeting. 

"What's this I hear you calling me?" Heero heard his sister say. 

"I'm sorry!" Duo wailed. 

She laughed, and said something else Heero couldn't make out. 

"Well, I wanted to say thanks for the invitation. Thanks a _lot_. I'll definitely come, in one shape or another. I mean, I _should_ be human by then, but you never know. Either way, I don't know if I'll have anything appropriate to wear." 

Relena seemed to answer with something to the purpose of Heero being surely able to find Duo a tuxedo. 

"Yeah, but it may have to be a human-size tux, and he can't be spending that much money on me." 

Heero thought he gladly could be, but didn't say so. 

"Well, maybe Heero can find you a job too," Relena suggested, and went on to say something about the company Heero worked for only hiring people that were best friends with someone that already worked there. Heero snorted. 

"Now _there's_ an idea," said Duo thoughtfully. "I could keep that nerd guy from bothering Heero all the time..." 

Relena said something else Heero didn't catch. 

"I will!" Duo replied heartily. "Right now! Oh, but first, I needed to ask you to marry me." 

Something in an amused tone from Relena was followed up by, "You meet me in the church on July tenth, and we'll see what happens." 

"That's good enough for me!" Duo grinned. "And, seriously, thanks again for the invite." 

"You're very welcome. Put my brother back on, would you?" 

Heero returned the phone to his own ear. "Here I am." 

Bluntly, though in Japanese, Relena asked, "Any particular reason you haven't told this guy how you feel about him?" 

Heero answered just as bluntly in the same language. "He's in love with his friend." 

"The one with the psycho eyes who lives behind the door in your living room wall?" Relena sounded surprised. "That's funny... I got the impression he and Quatre..." 

"Yeah, there's that too. It's a little complicated." 

"Well, I'm sorry about that. I was watching you guys the other night, and I thought... well, that's too bad." 

"I've been telling myself it doesn't matter," said Heero firmly. "Duo's a good friend, and I wouldn't want to lose that. I can be happy with that." 

"Oh, Heero," she half laughed and half sighed. "You can keep telling yourself that right up until it starts to hurt, but then I expect you to get out of the situation, OK? Don't be a masochist." 

"OK, fine," he replied in much the same tone. He didn't feel like admitting that it already hurt. 

"And, seriously, if you don't find a steady boyfriend, mama's never going to stop plotting to make a grandchild-fathering straight man out of you." 

"Well, when are _you_ going to tell her that you and Colin aren't planning on kids?" 

Now Relena gave a sigh that held no amusement whatsoever. "I don't know. I haven't had the nerve yet. It's going to make her so unhappy." 

"I know _that_ feeling." 

She gave a somewhat bitter laugh. "Well, I'll talk to you whenever, and we'll see what we've come up with by then." 

"Thanks again for inviting Duo," Heero said. 

Her laugh was more pleasant now. "I've never been thanked so much for anything before! He must really be happy about it!" 

"You have no idea," said Heero sincerely. He didn't think he completely understood Duo's happiness at this, and _he'd_ watched it build. 

They said their goodbyes and hung up, and Heero replaced his phone in his pocket. Then he looked down at Duo again. 

"So do you think I really could get a job where you work, once the curse is broken?" was Duo's immediate query. 

Heero went back to sorting the mail. "Possibly." 

"What exactly do all those people I've met up there _do_?" Duo wondered next. "Besides asking you a million questions." 

So Heero explained about the sales team's various functions, the job requirements, the training, and the fact that having a friend working there really _was_ a good way to get hired yourself. And through it all he tried to brace himself for this actually happening. Having human Duo around him at work every day was an ambivalent prospect. 

But he'd meant what he'd told his sister: Duo's friendship was valuable enough to him that he didn't want to push him away, even if the resultant closeness that wasn't quite everything he wanted threatened to drive him insane. And as a friend, he would do whatever he could to make sure Duo's new life as a human went well. He would help him land on his feet; he would get him a job, if he could; he would help him find a home and start living again; he would assist in whatever way Duo needed. He would tell him in the kindest possible manner that Trowa didn't love him anymore. Just as soon as he figured out how.


	114. Plastic Part 64

With each day that passed, the moment of Quatre's departure in the evening became more difficult for Trowa. He knew both that he probably shouldn't be getting this attached to and desirous of Quatre's extended companionship, and that Quatre really did have a job and places to be in the mornings... but he couldn't help feeling disappointed when conversation started working its way around to Quatre's getting up and leaving. 

Thus Trowa was startled and pleased when, instead of the usual _"Well, I should get going"_ on Friday, Quatre asked unexpectedly, "Can I spend the night?" Which explained why he'd brought a backpack with him. Not that Quatre's bedroom and the rest of his house wasn't just through the front door, but it was like Quatre to come specifically prepared. 

And did this mean...? It probably did, and it would probably have been obvious to anyone else that knew people and the world better, and it would probably seem very stupid to request clarification... but Trowa had to be sure. "Are you saying," he asked slowly, "that you want to have sex?" 

Quatre's face took on a smile that was simultaneously fond, pitying, and full of a laughter in which there was no derision. "Yes, Trowa," he said kindly, "that's what I'm saying." 

"And are you aware..." said Trowa, even more slowly, "that I've never done that before? With anyone?" 

"I thought that might be the case." Quatre leaned up and pecked him briefly on the lips. "As long as it's all right with _you_..." 

It was more than all right with Trowa, despite the nervousness that had gripped him and everything he feared he might feel afterward. "Yes," he said. 

"Are you sure?" 

"Why do you always ask me that?" Trowa was surprised at his own impatience as he voiced this complaint. "Yes, I'm sure." 

Quatre also looked somewhat surprised. "You've been alone for a long time," he explained seriously, "and I know I'm sometimes a little overbearing. I don't want to push you into anything you'll regret afterwards." 

"Everything I enjoy I regret afterwards," was Trowa's blunt response. "Sometimes I even regret it at the time. But you were the one who told me I need to stop pushing away good experiences because I feel guilty about enjoying them." 

Appearing at the same moment pleased that Trowa was making this effort and concerned that there _was_ still regret and guilt involved in all of this -- and overall as if he was about to ask, 'Are you sure?' again -- Quatre seemed to struggle with his thoughts for a few silent seconds. Eventually he must have decided that Trowa was, in fact, sure -- or at least had the right to act as if he was -- for he leaned up to kiss him briefly again and then said, with a playful smile, "Well, let's have a shower." 

Taken aback by what seemed to him a total shift in conversational focus, Trowa echoed blankly, "A shower?" 

"You know, where the water comes out and you get clean?" Quatre teased. "You do have..." He paused, his smile fading and his brows lowering as a thought struck him and caused his joking question to turn abruptly totally serious. "You do _have_ a shower, don't you?" 

"Oh, yes," Trowa reassured him hastily. "I just never use it." 

Looking perplexed and amused, "You've never seemed anything but perfectly clean to me," Quatre remarked. 

"I use magic to keep clean. It's quicker and easier." 

Now Quatre's smile spread out into a wondering grin of sudden understanding. "That's why you always smell like books," he said: "you get rid of the dirt with magic, but never wash the smell off." 

Trowa wasn't aware that he did smell like books -- though Quatre had told him more than once that he smelled nice -- but thought this assessment was probably accurate. 

Now Quatre took him by the arm and began pulling him toward the study (and, presumably, the bedroom and bathroom beyond). "Well, come on," he said. "A shower every now and then won't hurt." 

Trowa rather suspected it would do just the opposite, and followed willingly. 

He found himself very nervous about removing his clothes, something he'd never done in front of someone -- at least in this context -- his entire adult life. What if Quatre didn't like him... what if Quatre decided to call things off right then and there, and walked out, leaving Trowa naked, heartbroken, _and_ guilty... what if Trowa's thin, pale, inexperienced body brought everything to an end? 

Besides this, there were other considerations slowing Trowa's hands on his shirt buttons. 

Quatre stepped out of his shoes, which he placed neatly against the wall beside the door, and then, with no apparent hesitation, took off his pants. Trowa's eyes lingered on his bare legs, following them up to where the shirt obscured everything else and back down to the black socks he had yet to remove, while Quatre unthreaded his belt from his slacks, rolled the former and folded the latter, and placed both neatly on the closed toilet seat. Then he removed his tie and began unbuttoning his shirt, and by this point Trowa was completely motionless, riveted. 

Unsurprisingly, Quatre folded his shirt as well, and stacked it on the other items on the toilet, then folded his tie in half exactly twice and set it atop the shirt. This put his back to Trowa again, who took the opportunity to examine two little dimples in the smooth flesh just above where an interesting indentation disappeared beneath a pair of tight, plain boxer briefs. Quatre bent to remove his socks (which he then balled and placed in one of his shoes), and this movement caused every last aspect of the area Trowa's eyes were fixed on to shift and tighten. Involuntarily Trowa caught his breath. 

Hearing this, Quatre whirled on him with a knowing grin. Instead of saying anything, he advanced until he was pressed up against Trowa, who in turn found himself pressed up against the sink. Quatre seized Trowa's hands and brought them sliding down his sides, abandoning them only when he'd tucked Trowa's fingertips under the waistband of his briefs in an unspoken but unmistakable command. 

Trowa wasn't sure whether nervousness or arousal made his movements more jerky, but at least he didn't hesitate: his hands dug in, pushing the garment down over Quatre's buttocks. The briefs stuck and hung in front on an already-halfway-erect penis, and Trowa thought that the act of clumsily disentangling this, and especially the little breath of pleasure and anticipation Quatre gave as he did so, would drive him crazy. 

Meanwhile, Quatre was attacking Trowa's shirt with motions far more dexterous and sure than any of Trowa's -- was he good at this because he'd done it with many others? how on earth was Trowa supposed to compare? -- and had it off in almost no time. He didn't fold it as he had his own clothing; either he was content to leave any such obsessive neatness relating to Trowa's clothes up to Trowa himself, or happenings had gotten too interesting over here for him to make the effort. He did, however, drop it behind him onto his things on the toilet, rather than onto the floor, before returning to deal with Trowa's pants. 

"You know I've wanted to get you naked ever since I first saw you?" he murmured as he eased the khaki slacks down Trowa's thighs, revealing another bulging pair of briefs. 

"Is that why you got me drunk?" Trowa wondered breathlessly, leaning on the sink while Quatre pulled his pants entirely off of him. 

Quatre laughed, twisting around again to drape the slacks over the toilet. He stepped out of his own briefs, which had been stretched between his knees, and sent them to join the rest of it. Then he pressed up against Trowa once more, stroking him through his underwear so suddenly that Trowa let out a surprised groan. 

Up over Trowa's jaw and cheekbone and ear Quatre's lips crept as his hands eased Trowa out of the last garment covering any human flesh in the room. And when this, too, had taken its place on the toilet seat, Quatre stood back and made a great show of examining Trowa from head to toe. In response to this Trowa was torn; he doubted that what Quatre saw could possibly be particularly pleasant to look at, but at the same time it gave him the opportunity to return the scrutiny with interest -- and Quatre naked was the most beautiful thing he had seen in his long life. Everything, from his utterly unabashed little smile to his well-shaped chest and the perfect slight inward curve of his waist to the dusting of pale, curling hair around his erection to the muscular lines of his legs... _everything_ Trowa saw heightened his arousal and desire. 

His nervous fears were somewhat allayed, for the moment, when Quatre gave a thoughtfully pleased _mmm_ing sound and a widened smile. He took Trowa's hand and pulled him toward the bath. 

"You really _don't_ use this!" was his amused remark as he pulled the shower curtain aside and looked around at the totally empty tub and the showerhead above from which not a gleam of dripping water showed. 

"I'm not even sure why I have a shower curtain at all," Trowa admitted, allowing Quatre to pull him into the bathtub. 

"It's a good thing you do, or my shower plan would be ruined." 

"I could contain the water magically, if I needed to." 

Quatre, who had arranged the curtain in question and then started fiddling with the taps, now abruptly pulled the little metal thing that switched the water up to the shower, apparently without regard to the temperature, and whirled on Trowa again. "Could you?" he demanded. He slid his arms up Trowa's bare chest and pushed him against the wall. "Have I told you how sexy it is when you do magic?" 

Taken by surprise by the sudden burst of cold water against his naked body, the cold tiles of the wall against his back, and most of all by Quatre's remark, Trowa was barely able to get out a halting answer in the negative before Quatre was kissing him hard, pressed up against him again in an electric shifting of newly-wet skin. Mercilessly teasing, Quatre ran hands down and up Trowa's sides, over his shoulders and back down onto his collarbone and chest, but did not touch him anywhere else even as he thoroughly explored Trowa's mouth with his tongue. 

By the time he withdrew, they were both shivering with cold and, at least in Trowa's case, frustrated need, and Quatre took a moment to adjust the water temperature before returning to driving his lover absolutely out of his mind. 

Trowa had originally assumed that the idea behind the shower was to get clean for the sake of more pleasant sex; then Quatre's manner of undressing them both and practically incapacitating Trowa with kisses had made him think rather that the sex was going to take place _in_ the shower. Now, as Quatre dragged him under the newly-warm water and began leisurely to follow its trails down Trowa's body with his fingers -- but never _quite_ to where Trowa would prefer they go -- he really wasn't sure _what_ the point of the shower was. 

But the sensation of Quatre pushing his wet hair entirely back out of his face and kissing him right in the midst of the flowing water, the like of which Trowa had never felt before and that made all his skin tingle and his erection throb almost unbearably, led him eventually to the conclusion that he didn't really care.


	115. Plastic Part 65

The purpose of the shower had been to help Trowa over some of his painfully obvious nervousness and make things a little easier on him by getting him good and ready long before anything potentially daunting was asked of him. Quatre wasn't sure how well it had worked, especially given that Trowa still definitely wasn't taking any sort of initiative... but he _did_ seem to be feeling a _little_ less awkward. 

Now Quatre, dripping onto the cool tiles of the bathroom floor, was frowning slightly as he looked around the room. "Towels?" he wondered. 

In that blank tone indicating he'd been unexpectedly confronted by some aspect of the real world that he wasn't ready for, Trowa echoed, "Towels..." and followed Quatre's gaze around at the vacant rack on the wall and the small, equally empty cabinet under the sink that Quatre had just opened. He pulled himself together, though, and began to speak in the magical language. 

Quatre made a little noise of surprise as a rush of hot air swept over him from nowhere and he suddenly found his body every bit as dry as if he _had_ had a towel. And he couldn't quite decide whether the sensation itself or the sound of Trowa's voice casting the spell had turned him on more. 

He reached out to pull Trowa closer to him, kissing him again and running his other hand up Trowa's newly-dried skin into his damp hair. After a few moments he released him but for their clasped hands, and began to walk toward the door, smiling. Trowa allowed himself to be dragged out into the bedroom without protest, but Quatre thought his movements still indicated some serious nervousness. He had a strong urge to ask Trowa just one more time if he was sure he wanted to do this, but repressed it. He would simply have to trust him to volunteer any feelings of discomfort or any desire to stop. 

The old bed creaked as Quatre scrambled backward onto it, and again as he pulled Trowa after him. At first Trowa was very stiff as Quatre kissed him from the seated position in which they'd come to rest, but Quatre's hand on his equally-stiff erection melted him completely, and he lay back as Quatre pressed forward. Soon Quatre was half on top of him, straddling one leg, sucking on his neck and fingering the head of his penis while Trowa's long hands clutched at Quatre's sides and his breaths came short and hard. 

Wrapping his hand fully around Trowa's shaft, he began to stroke him slowly up and down, simultaneously grinding his own against Trowa's hip, his faint moan mingling with Trowa's slightly louder one. Trowa's fingers pressed bruisingly into Quatre's ribs, a sensation Quatre rather liked, and his slender body seemed entirely tense, as if ready for some great effort. 

Quatre drifted farther down so that he was straddling Trowa's knee and his mouth could explore the pale, almost translucent skin of Trowa's chest. Along Quatre's back and into his hair Trowa's hands slipped as he moved, and clenched almost painfully when Quatre found a nipple and began teasing it with tongue and teeth. Determined to leave a mark, he began sucking hard, and at the same moment discontinued stroking Trowa's erection in favor of exploring down over his balls and beyond. 

Trowa gasped and stiffened even farther as Quatre's finger drifted across and then pressed against his tight opening, but if Quatre had been afraid this was a negative or reluctant reaction, he didn't have to worry long, as Trowa's unoccupied leg moved almost immediately to widen the space, drawing up and giving Quatre better access in a tacit gesture of permission. 

Releasing the area of skin he'd been deliberately bruising, Quatre lapped at the spot as he slowly, very slowly, worked his middle finger into Trowa up to the knuckle and then began gradually pulling it back out again. Trowa's hands were tangling his hair, tightening against his scalp in almost trembling movements, and when Quatre finally withdrew and shifted back up to meet Trowa's eyes, those hands pulled him down into a kiss with desperate insistence. 

Before they'd gone to shower, Quatre had been careful to set his backpack down next to the bed where it could be easily reached, but even so he had to get off of Trowa entirely and move to the edge in order to get at what he needed. Trowa, who might not even have been clear on what Quatre was doing, dragged him into another hungry kiss the moment he returned. He kept his bright moon eyes fixed on Quatre as the latter sat up, adjusted, and lay back down. 

Now, draped across Trowa's stomach and chest, Quatre had both hands available to get the plastic bottle open. This was his favorite brand of lube: water-soluble, non-staining, a bit thicker than other types, and only very faintly scented. And the breathy groan Trowa made as Quatre's slickened finger probed at him endeared it to him even more. 

Probably curious about what Quatre was going to do in this new position, Trowa had propped himself up on his elbows, but now he went flat on his back again and clutched once more at Quatre's side with groping hands. When Quatre's entire pointer finger was inside him and beginning a slow, circular motion, Trowa choked out his name. Quatre paused. "No, don't stop," Trowa gasped. "Please don't stop." 

The desire in the words made Quatre harder than ever, hot blood pounding through his erection as if driven by a hammer, and not to stop was what he wanted more than anything. In fact, going a little faster might even be nice. 

Trowa was squirming and panting as Quatre added another finger and quickened the pace with which he pushed them in and drew them out. Quatre was trying not to imagine what it was going to feel like to be inside Trowa with more than just fingers, lest he go crazy wanting him before Trowa was ready; and yet the glowing, gorgeous imagining that _would_ take place no matter how he tried to repress it was making him pant. But he kept himself under control, working at preparing Trowa as thoroughly as possible; knowing how Trowa was likely to feel about this after it was over, he wanted to make damn sure that he enjoyed it at the time. 

And yet, the farther he reached into Trowa and the more he stretched him, the more desperate became the little cries that issued from Trowa's throat and the tighter Trowa's hands gripped. Quatre didn't think he could help being somewhat disappointed if Trowa came before he was buried inside him, and this impelled him to remove his fingers entirely and sit up. 

Trowa was watching him through slitted eyes, and his lips were trembling; the coloration of his face looked almost natural, which Quatre thought must be his version of a flush, and the faint glow Quatre had always observed about him seemed brighter now than ever before. As Quatre looked down at him, Trowa swallowed hard in the midst of the gasping breaths that made his chest heave, and gave a hesitant little smile. This was enough to drive Quatre right to the edge, and he was positioning himself between Trowa's legs even before he started to ask, "Are you ready?" 

Almost manically, Trowa nodded, and replied in an uneven whisper, "I think so." 

With hands that weren't entirely steady Quatre ripped open the condom he'd brought and practically fumbled it on. Then, as he slathered a final helping of lubricant across its outer surface, he moaned helplessly. He wanted in there so badly, and raising his eyes to meet Trowa's gaze -- still clearly nervous, but trusting and anticipatory -- did nothing but increase his need. But he must not do it too quickly; he had to do this right. 

He took a deep breath and smoothed his hands out over Trowa's thighs, pushing them to a better position and encouraging his whole lower body up into a better angle. Then he slid forward, spreading his own legs a little farther for better stability, and, supported on one hand on the bed beside Trowa's chest, used his other to guide the head of his erection to the heat of Trowa's anus. And, though it was an ongoing, shuddering battle against the aching urge to slam into that tight space, to make Trowa yell and writhe, to thrust into him as fast and hard as possible until he came, Quatre pushed in as slowly as he could bring himself to move. 

Trowa's entire body stiffened as he received Quatre inside him -- except for his penis, which softened somewhat -- and his hands found Quatre's back once again and clawed in. Eyes squeezed tight shut, lips still trembling slightly, he let out a long wavering breath that eventually turned into a deep groan and then a series of staccato gasps. Quatre, his own body similarly stiff and trembling with the desire to move, let them settle into a position of readiness and then stilled. He bent and kissed Trowa's sweating brow. "Does it hurt?" he asked. 

After gulping another breath, Trowa tried to answer, but evidently coherent words wouldn't come. Finally, his eyes dragging open to their previous slitted state and casting their glow upward onto Quatre's face, he shook his head. Quatre, thinking he probably meant that it didn't hurt more than he could handle, remained motionless for the moment. 

And Trowa, with a long, shuddering breath, began slowly rotating his hips, testing the sensations of having Quatre inside him, and lightly clenching various internal muscles. Quatre, who really had not been expecting this of him, was taken by surprise and jerked forward in a hard thrust, gasping out as he did so, "Oh... Trowa..." 

Trowa gave a surprised cry of his own as Quatre thrust into him, and his legs drew up so that his bare feet were curling against Quatre's thighs. Quatre, who hadn't meant to move despite how wonderful it had been, tried even harder now to keep still, though he knew it was only a matter of time before he wasn't going to be able to anymore. Shifting back onto the one hand, he bent and kissed Trowa hard, and with his other hand reached down between them to try to tease Trowa fully erect again. He could feel Trowa's errant moans through his own lips and tongue, and Trowa's fingers were digging into his back harder than ever. 

If Trowa was still feeling any significant discomfort, he gave no sign of it, and it didn't prevent his penis hardening right up again under Quatre's touch. And he was still _moving_, too, squirming as if this were more than he could bear, or perhaps as if he knew what it was doing to Quatre and genuinely wanted to drive him mad. Or possibly both. Whatever the case, Quatre was already beginning to draw out and press back in again almost without realizing he was doing it. At least he was still moving slowly. 

With a long groan Trowa went even stiffer, every muscle in his body seemingly taut -- including the ones that were currently surrounding the part of Quatre that was inside him. Quatre echoed his groan, and, putting both hands once again at Trowa's sides, quickened his pace. He found a pattern that he liked, and Trowa's continued movement that changed the angle slightly with every rhythmic thrust made it absolutely perfect. 

There wasn't much warning, but still Quatre wasn't terribly surprised when Trowa came after not too long. Evidently Trowa was surprised, however, if the mesmerizing cry he gave or the captivating expression on his beautiful face was any indication. Quatre appreciated these indications of ecstasy, was conscious of the nails digging into his flesh and the burning heat between them, through a sort of erotic haze, for Trowa had tightened so much around him as he'd orgasmed that Quatre was seeing stars. 

His earlier impulse, to pound into a writhing Trowa hard and fast until he was satisfied, was all of a sudden a reality. Trowa curled upward against him, gasping into Quatre's neck and shoulder, clinging to him, twisting and panting and moaning, as Quatre moved at greater and greater speed. For a second time, in his abandon, Quatre whispered Trowa's name as he felt himself drawing close to fulfillment. 

And when Trowa replied by whispering Quatre's name in return, with no hint of despair or guilt to the word -- just simple pleasure and satisfaction at being here now sharing this with him -- that was more than enough. Everything seemed simultaneously to tighten and expand as that lightening-shock of enjoyment hit him; he gave two last deep, forceful thrusts into Trowa as he came, groaning out his satisfaction as the wave of orgasm shuddered through his body, and then gradually stilled. 

Slowly they both unclenched, relaxing down onto the bed and into each other's arms in a hot haze of calming breaths. Trowa's eyes were closed, but a little smile was on his parted lips, which Quatre kissed briefly before letting his own face fall to the blanket as his head sank down past a shoulder and his cheek came to rest against Trowa's. 

The scent of sweat and sex was in the air, and Trowa's hands were slowly caressing his back, and he was already sinking into a warm, comfortable afterglow. Though fully aware that he might have to start thinking about damage control after not too long, Quatre was very pleased, for now, just to lie here and enjoy this moment.


	116. Plastic Part 66

Though there were currently a number of parts of Trowa that he thought could not possibly feel _any_ better, still, overall, he felt a lot better once the light was off and his body was hidden from sight. 

Quatre had flitted around, getting them cleaned up, letting Trowa remain still and contemplative, going to shut off the lamp in the study next door as well as the light in this room, and at last returning to join Trowa underneath the blanket. Then he curled up right against him, one arm across Trowa's chest and his breath warm on Trowa's neck. 

Trowa was concentrating in some fascination on the sensations in his lower half: a warm, pervasive satisfaction contrasted with an aching soreness, not to mention the very present, very visceral memory of how it had felt to be so filled, so tight... He never could have imagined how good it would be. But he was also pleased by this gentler contact; Quatre's fingers were sliding slowly over his chest, exploring him almost lazily. 

"You know," Quatre said presently, "I was expecting your skin to glow in the dark." 

Trowa wasn't really sure what to say to that. His skin was horribly pale; he supposed it would make some sense for it to phosphoresce. 

"Your _eyes_ actually glow..." Quatre went on, leaning forward so he was speaking against Trowa's shoulder in a sort of conversational kiss. "And your skin sort of glows in the light, so I'm a little surprised it doesn't in the dark." When Trowa still had nothing to say, Quatre finished, "Either way, you have the most beautiful skin I've ever seen." 

Now Trowa was startled. He'd thought Quatre was remarking on the properties of his cursed body as an insect collector might note some interesting feature of a new specimen; that there could be admiration in the comment had never crossed Trowa's mind. "It's so unnatural," he protested. 

"Oh, I know... but it's a _nice_ unnatural. It's like a shell -- one of those ones that looks like it's going to be transparent before you pick it up, but then turns out not to be. Besides..." Quatre nuzzled his face against Trowa's arm with a little contented sigh. "I doubt it was the curse that made it feel so smooth and soft. I wonder if it's just that the air here is perfect for it, or that you never bathe, or both, or what..." He pressed his lips to Trowa's shoulder again and then lay still. 

Trowa's level of pleasure at this compliment was unexpectedly great, perhaps because it had come from someone that had just made him feel so amazingly good. He'd always regarded his skin as vaguely distasteful in this state, but he didn't think Quatre was lying about finding it attractive. 

"I'm interested in seeing what you'll look like once the curse is broken, too," mused Quatre. "I do hope it won't change _too_ much, though." 

"Just the skin and the eyes, as far as I remember... though I don't know why you wouldn't want to change the rest of it at the same time." 

Quatre snorted. "The rest of _what_, Trowa? These amazing shoulders? Your perfect chest? This flat stomach? This nice long cock? Your sexy legs?" He touched each as he mentioned it, and Trowa shivered. "Because if you were thinking of trying to change any of that with magic or whatever, I'll have to officially complain." 

"But I'm so..." Trowa searched for a word that would describe what he was -- a starved little pathetic half-man like some sort of skeletal cave-dwelling creature that should probably never come out into the light -- and eventually settled for one that only said a small part: "...skinny." 

"Well, I won't say you couldn't do with some meat on your bones, but that doesn't mean they're not very nice bones." Quatre chuckled. "And I've already gotten you started on a regular routine of eating once a day!" 

"So _that's_ what that's about." Trowa's tone was only half-joking as he implied that Quatre was trying to fatten him up in order to make him more attractive. 

"It's _because_," Quatre said somewhat severely, "eating regularly is _healthy_. And because you'll need to be in the habit once the curse is broken. And also," he added more lightly, "because it's enjoyable, and I want to tempt you into _all_ the pleasures of the flesh." 

Trowa raised a hand to clasp the one of Quatre's that lay on his chest. "Well, you're off to an excellent start." 

"'Excellent?'" Quatre sounded pleased. "Is that how you'd describe it?" 

"If you mean the sex..." Trowa took a deep breath. "I don't really have words to describe it, but 'excellent' isn't a bad place to start." He tried a few others anyway, trailing off eventually in a murmur: "Amazing... spectacular... incredible..." 

"Oh, _good_," Quatre said emphatically. 

"Were you worried?" wondered Trowa in surprise that bordered on disbelief. 

Quatre's hand squeezed his, and the arm connected to it pressed down in a sort of half hug. "Of course I was. I don't think anyone ever has sex without being a _little_ worried that the other person won't like it... and, besides, it was your first time, and sometimes that's not... as good as it could be." 

"It was good," Trowa said, astonished to find himself offering what seemed to be reassurance to Quatre. "Better than 'good.'" 

"I'm glad," said Quatre happily. "It was great for me too." 

"'Great?'" Trowa echoed cautiously. "Not 'All right considering I had no idea what I was doing?'" And even 'doing' was a generous term, as Trowa had spent most of the time frozen in uncertainty. 

"You did fine. It _was_ 'great.' It was _wonderful_. You felt soooo good." 

Trowa found his face heating. "So did you," he said softly. 

"Mmm," said Quatre, and clasped him tightly. 

A long silence passed in warmth and comfort, and Trowa thought Quatre had fallen asleep until he spoke again quietly, very seriously and perhaps even a little forlornly: "I hope you aren't regretting it or feeling guilty..." 

"I'm..." The best Trowa could manage was, "I'm trying not to." 

"I wish I could help you with that," Quatre said sadly. 

Now it was Trowa's turn to squeeze Quatre's hand. "Just having you here helps." 

Eventually Quatre's breathing lengthened and regulated, and Trowa lay in the dark holding his hand, enjoying the warmth of him at his side, and pondering. There was still a part of him maintaining that someone like him didn't deserve anything like this, didn't deserve to feel pleasure or contentment; that Quatre was too good for him, and this entire relationship was an inappropriate distraction from what really mattered... 

But there was another part, and it was growing stronger, that argued that this wasn't hurting Duo or prolonging the curse; that Quatre was a very intelligent man and could choose his dalliances as he saw fit; that perhaps even someone like Trowa, even someone that had cursed his best friend, could enjoy himself every now and then without throwing the universe out of balance. He wasn't sure how much he _believed_ all of this, and perhaps it was just the afterglow talking anyway, but surely the fact that the thoughts were there at all must be a step in the direction Quatre wanted him to take. 

And he had been completely serious before; having Quatre there _did_ help. Quatre was still his buffer against self-loathing and shame, and feeling him lying there, solid and warm beside him, made Trowa's thoughts, made Trowa's _life_ \-- seemed, indeed, to make all of existence significantly brighter.


	117. Plastic Part 67

Heero had laid Duo's invitation and its envelope on the end table where Duo could easily see them whenever he was sitting there, and Duo had lost track of how often he'd gleefully reread them by Saturday. He was beside them now, staring at them in contentment as he talked to Heero. Without being a dick (given that the transportation and money and television were all Heero's), Duo was trying to convince his host that renting all the Star Wars movies was a great way to provide themselves with entertainment for the weekend. 

Heero, who was eating a leisurely breakfast on the couch, just smiled and said, "If I get my cleaning and laundry done, we'll go rent them tonight and watch them tomorrow." 

"All six of them? How long will that take?" 

"Well, maybe we'll watch one tonight." 

"Yay!" Duo waved his arms and legs as he cheered, and this reminded him... "Hey, did you notice I can bend my knees now?" 

"No! Since when?" 

"I'm not really sure," Duo admitted. "I don't need them very often since I still can't walk anyway -- doll does not stand alone -- so it could have happened a long time before I actually noticed." 

"But when did you notice?" Heero's tone was accusatory. 

"A couple of nights ago while you were asleep. I tried not to freak out about it and wake you up." 

"And then you didn't tell me until just now?" 

"I forgot!" 

Heero looked at him sternly. "You owe me, then. You'll have to tell me some interesting story about the 1910's while I do my cleaning." 

Thus they spent the rest of the morning and some of the afternoon. Heero got his apartment cleaned up, at first to the sound of Duo telling him what he remembered of the orphanage that had been his first home and from which he'd run away while still very young. This concerned the decade before the one Heero had specified, but Heero didn't seem to mind. 

When that story was finished, they experimented with Duo taking a turn reading aloud, but this was a definite no-go for a variety of reasons. First, Duo's voice was often insufficient to rise above the sounds of bathtub-scrubbing and the like. Then, although he could keep the book open by sitting on it, his subsequent range of vision did not include the full two pages; he couldn't tilt his head far enough down, and got in his own way. And those same pages proved almost impossible for him to turn; in fact, levering himself up in order to attempt it at one point led to the book's closing and falling off the bathroom counter into the trash can. This was frustrating, but in an entertaining sort of way, and Duo was generally pleased with anything that could make Heero laugh, even if it _was_ at his expense. 

After this, Heero took a shower while Duo sat outside the door and practiced whistling. This was largely for the sake of being able to whistle more loudly and elaborately at Heero's towel-wrapped figure when it emerged from the bathroom -- partly to express his genuine appreciation, and partly because it made Heero laugh. 

"You're getting better at that," was Heero's remark upon being greeted with _Don't Be Cruel_ (as accurately as Duo could remember it). 

"It's all for you," said Duo solemnly. "You deserve the best whistle I can give!" 

Heero rolled his eyes, but he was smiling. 

True to his word, Heero agreed that it was Star Wars time once the housework and shower were taken care of. So they went to a rental place, and on the way Heero educated Duo about Netflix. "I don't have a subscription right now," he said, "because there haven't been a lot of things I've felt like watching lately, but maybe I'll start it up again." 

"Aww, would you do that for me?" 

"If it keeps you from watching TV all day." 

"How is watching movies different, though?" 

"I'm not really sure. But it is." 

Duo laughed. 

The look the rental store clerk gave the somber man that walked in to rent all six Star Wars movies at once with a uniformed Star Trek doll peeking out of his jeans pocket was absolutely priceless. Duo thought he should really stop being so amused at Heero's embarrassment and discomfort, but at least Heero was relatively good-natured about it; besides, when Duo could actively enjoy some aspect of being a doll, it seemed impractical not to. Besides besides, Heero had laughed at _him_ earlier when he'd dropped the book. 

"You guys have fun," was the clerk's sarcastic goodbye. 

As Heero had his back to her at that point, Duo felt safe in replying audibly, "OK!" 

"I've been thinking about that," Heero said as he set Duo down in the passenger seat and stacked the DVD's beside him. 

"Having fun?" Duo interrupted in a suggestive tone. 

Heero did an excellent imitation of not having heard. "About you talking to people. We've been pretty secretive about you and your curse, and pretty careful about you talking where people might hear you... but why? Of course if you talked to people at work, it would turn into complete chaos, but, just in general, is there any particular reason to keep you a secret?" 

"Me?" Duo made a thoughtful noise. "Not really, I guess. Most people would just think what you guys did at first: robot, practical joke, whatever... It's kinda funny how I'm a super-great example of really strong magic, but I seem so mundane that magic's the last thing anyone thinks when they meet me." 

"You? Mundane?" Heero wondered. 

Duo beamed, and could tell they were turning a corner when the entire pile of DVD's slid over on top of him. From his new position lying on his side underneath at least one of them he said, "My point is that I'm not really something that gives away the existence of magic right away, so, no, it's probably not all that important to keep me, specifically, secret." 

"But magic in general?" Heero reached over blindly and pushed the DVD's off the seat (and Duo) onto the floor. 

"Thank you." Painstakingly Duo righted himself as he answered the question. "Back in the day, Trowa and I never bothered hiding the fact that we could do magic, and nobody got on our case about it. But we couldn't really do anything big at that point, and I don't know how many people we did tricks for believed it was actual magic and not just... tricks." 

"So there aren't any laws about magic and who can and can't see it?" 

"Not that I know of, but I'm really not the best person to ask, since I've, y'know, been a doll for ninety years. There's probably got to be _something_, though, or else more people would know." He paused. "Huh, now I want to know too. I'll have to ask Trowa." 

"It makes sense," Heero mused, "that magic should be a secret, at least most of the time. You said you've seen some of the Harry Potter movies, right? In that world, they have all sorts of laws and things preventing non-magical people from finding out that magic exists so they don't all start demanding magical assistance in their everyday lives." 

"You know, I used to think that was a good idea too, but eventually I changed my mind. I mean, having magic is a natural talent just like being able to sing well, isn't it? Why shouldn't people with magic help people who don't have it, just like people who sing well entertain people who don't?" 

"Good point... But we've lived in a society without magic for so long; if magicians started publicly using their magic for non-magical people, it would change everything about how the world works." 

"Only because they've been _hiding_ it for so long, though. If magicians hadn't been holed up in secret cults or whatever for so many centuries, we'd have evolved societies where magic was just a normal part of life." 

"But since we haven't, it's probably best to keep things the way they are and keep it a secret, isn't it?" 

"Maybe..." 

This discussion was so interesting that it took them all the way home and then lasted a good while into what they had previously intended to be Star-Wars-watching time. When the latter did eventually arrive, Duo found Heero looking thoughtfully at Trowa's door as he loaded up the first DVD. 

"Quatre mentioned a few weeks ago that he wanted to rewatch these sometime," Heero murmured. "I wonder what he's up to..." 

"I haven't seen him in days," remarked Duo, following Heero's gaze. "I wonder if he's gotten sick of going over to Trowa's and making him eat lunch and stuff." 

"No, he's... he's still been going over there. You've just missed him." 

"How could _I_ have missed him if _you_ noticed him?" 

Heero shrugged. 

"I guess your dazzling presence was just distracting me from everything else." 

With a monosyllabic laugh Heero said, "Well, now it's time to be distracted by Star Wars. Quatre will just have to rewatch them on his own time." 

Duo cheered. Then he settled happily against his lamp on his end table next to Heero on the couch to watch. But that didn't mean that the interesting and somewhat pleasing revelation that Quatre _had_ still been going over to Trowa's house on a daily basis -- surreptitiously, even -- wasn't a little on his mind until nearly halfway through the movie.


	118. Plastic Part 68

Trowa came to visit Duo on Sunday morning, and, though Heero took almost no part in their conversation, still he watched the two of them like a hawk. He saw exactly what Duo had been talking about a week ago: Trowa was definitely more animated, apparently more happy, than he had been earlier in their acquaintance; and the quiet bitterness that Heero remembered as underlying everything Trowa said seemed diminished, at least slightly. Quatre had that effect on people. 

If Heero was any judge, Trowa was also trying to bring himself to tell Duo something specific -- and if Heero _was_ any judge, he knew exactly what this was. Trowa never quite got it out, however, and Heero couldn't even be very annoyed at him for it. Though he couldn't really comprehend falling out of love with Duo once in, it was not logically impossible to believe that after eighty-seven years of separation Trowa's feelings had changed... and if Heero thought _he_ would have a hard time telling Duo this, it must seem even more difficult for Trowa himself. 

Oddly enough, this actually made Heero like Trowa a little better. That neither of them had the guts to say what needed to be said to poor Duo was pathetic, but that their mutual desire was to avoid hurting Duo -- especially now that Heero knew they weren't rivals -- could only bring them closer. 

Heero watched Duo too, and not to any particularly pleasant enlightenment. Duo was consistently gentler and more serious with Trowa; it wasn't that he completely abandoned the more energetic and fun aspects of his personality, but rather that he toned them down as if specifically in response to Trowa's general solemnity. He didn't tease Trowa; he didn't flirt with Trowa; he hardly even made jokes. While Heero could understand that this was possibly the best way to deal with Trowa, he didn't like to see Duo feeling that he couldn't be himself around someone -- especially someone he loved -- for whatever reason. 

Trowa looked discernibly surprised when Heero smiled at him as he left. Heero doubted Trowa had any illusions about what Heero's attitude toward him had been thus far, which was unfortunate... the guy was Heero's best friend's boyfriend; things shouldn't be prickly between them. 

"He's definitely getting better," Duo said with satisfaction, looking after Trowa at the door in the wall. "He was so miserable and... kinda _dead_ before... he seems a lot happier now. I'm really glad." 

Heero nodded. 

"OK, now Star Wars!" Duo had invited Trowa to watch the remaining five movies with them, but Trowa had declined the offer with disinterest that verged on horror. "Time to find out more about the stupid kid and the obnoxious floppy guy!" 

"Let me grab breakfast first," said Heero in some amusement, and then yawned. "You two and your early weekend hours..." 

"Hey, I am a _sleeper-in_ when I can actually sleep." Duo delivered this announcement proudly, as if it were a serious accomplishment, which made Heero laugh a little. "Course that might have changed; I don't know. And also it might just have been because I had insomnia most nights and couldn't fall asleep in the first place until forever late." 

"You had chronic insomnia when you _could_ sleep, and then you got cursed so that you _couldn't_ sleep?" Heero wondered in severe pity. "That doesn't seem fair." 

"Welcome to the world of curses," Duo replied, and Heero could tell without looking down that he was rolling his eyes. "But believe me: once I'm human, I am _never_ going to have a problem sleeping again, I swear to god." 

It didn't take long for Duo to start making fun of the second Star Wars episode as cheerfully as he had the first last night. And just like the first last night, Heero thought he was enjoying the second; he wondered what Duo would make of the original trilogy once they got there. 

Near the end of _Revenge of the Sith_, Heero's mother called. It was just another family dinner invitation, but it didn't come without some leading questions and meaningful remarks. Quatre really did seem to be her greatest fear, and Relena's roommate Lindsay her greatest hope. Heero couldn't help grimacing a bit as he pleaded a prior engagement on the night she wanted him over, and navigated the treacherous rapids of her meddlesome homophobia not entirely without mishap. 

Originally he had turned the volume on the TV down somewhat so Duo could keep watching, but when he noticed that Duo seemed to be paying more attention to his phone conversation (despite being unable to understand it), he paused the movie entirely. The doll was making frustrated noises as he listened to Heero, and it seemed a little sad that Duo, hearing only half of the discussion and comprehending none of it, could nevertheless tell what its mood was. 

When Heero was finally free of his mother for the moment, he flopped back down onto the couch with a sigh. Relena was right: he needed a boyfriend. Unfortunately, the one he had in mind was in love with someone else. 

"Man," Duo grumbled, "for someone who likes to fix things as much as you do, you sure are taking your time fixing this thing with your family." 

This really wasn't what Heero wanted to hear, especially when he'd been expecting sympathy. "What?" 

"I've seen you at work," said Duo knowingly. "You _love_ figuring out what's wrong with stuff and making it right. You get _excited_ about it. Sure, you _act_ all annoyed when you find something someone's done wrong, but then you jump all over fixing it." 

"So?" the impatient Heero wondered. "What does that have to do with my family?" 

"Well, your parents are being jerks to you for no good reason, and--" 

Heero broke in irritably. "And I should be doing something to 'fix' that, should I?" 

"You're certainly putting up with it more nicely than _I_ would." 

"And what would _you_ do?" 

"Tell them what's going on! If your mom wants to hook you up with some girl, or wants you to get rid of your car, or whatever, put your foot down! Tell her it's not going to happen, and she needs to stop wasting both your time!" 

"Yeah, well, sometimes, with your mother, you can't be as blunt as you'd like." 

"You can if she's being a bitch." 

"Duo!" Heero was on his feet again in his growing annoyance. "You can't say things like that about someone's mother!" 

"But she's _hurting_ you," Duo protested. "She's being pushy and unfair, and _you're_ suffering for it." 

"That doesn't mean I'm going to start saying awful things to her." 

"Well, maybe it should! If that's what it takes to get her to stop being so evil to you." 

"That's what it would take to get her to stop talking to me entirely!" 

"That's her loss, then!" 

"Duo..." Heero ran an exasperated hand through his hair. "These are my _parents_ we're talking about. I'm not just going to... _throw them away_... because they're being unreasonable." 

"What is people's _deal_ about parents?" Duo sounded every bit as exasperated as Heero. "Why would you put up with bullshit you wouldn't take from anyone else just because it's coming from your parents?" 

Heero gave a frustrated noise and strode out of the room. Of course this gesture didn't mean quite so much when he took Duo with him, but it was effective nonetheless. He went out onto the balcony into a light rain, and there he stood in silence, holding Duo on the railing. 

What really rankled was that, to a large extent, Duo was right: Heero _did_ put up with treatment from his parents that he wouldn't tolerate from anyone else. But it was more complicated than Duo made it sound; there was no simple algorithm for dealing with your parents, and no instruction manual on how to fix an uncomfortable family situation. 

"I guess it's a little counterproductive of me," Duo said at last, quietly, "to be a jerk to you about your parents being jerks to you." 

Heero laughed faintly. "I may put up with a little too much sometimes." 

"And I never had parents, so I have no idea what I'm talking about with this stuff anyway." 

Heero stood silently for several more seconds, thinking about various things and becoming quite damp. The thought that kept coming back, even in the midst of his reflections about his parents and what could and couldn't be done, was one that demanded to be spoken aloud. So, eventually and rather gruffly, he said, "It's nice to know you care. Just... don't call my mother a bitch." 

"Yeah, that was out of line. I'm sorry." 

Heero's specific annoyance with Duo had already mostly faded, though his agitation and discontent regarding the situation they'd been discussing remained. With a sigh of frustration, he gave Duo a squeeze and retreated out of the rain. 

Neither of them said anything more until they were seated back in front of the TV, which had gone to screensaver over the paused DVD, and then it was as if there had never been any tension. 

"OK, so whiner-boy just killed his wife," Duo was saying, "and the little green guy was up to something." 

"Right," Heero agreed, rubbing rain off his hands onto his damp jeans and then reaching for the remote. And soon Anakin was on fire and Duo was laughing, and everything was (relatively) fine again.


	119. Plastic Part 69

The first day of Duo's third week as Heero's desk decoration went fairly smoothly, despite the meeting Heero had to attend in the afternoon. To this Duo rode in the pocket of Heero's slacks, his vision entirely obscured by the suit coat that fell down over and concealed him. The meeting, which was _extremely_ boring to listen to, ran late, and this kept them far enough past five o'clock that Heero didn't have to worry about encountering Totally Out Of Character Guy on the way out. That didn't mean their departure from the building was entirely encounter-free, however. 

"Yuy!" 

Duo was not at all surprised when Heero turned immediately at the hail, for the tone was so commanding, even in just those two syllables, as to leave very little room for noncompliance. 

It was the security guard, the woman with the loopy braid-things that eyed Heero like a laser sight every day when he came into or went out of the building. She'd never talked to him before in Duo's presence, but evidently curiosity had finally gotten the better of her professionalism, for now she had emerged from behind her high round desk in the entry and beckoned peremptorily to him. 

"What," Heero said. 

She didn't mince words. "Why have you been bringing that doll to work?" 

Without actually feeling it, Duo was aware of Heero's grip on him tightening. "He's a collector's item. I like having him on my desk." Again, Duo wasn't really surprised that Heero responded so readily; he had a feeling that very few people ever refused this woman anything. 

"And why do you take it home every day?" 

"So he doesn't get damaged or stolen." Heero's dogged insistence on masculine pronouns, in the face of others' use of 'it,' pleased Duo to no end. 

"Let me see it." It wasn't a request. 

Heero did only exactly as instructed, holding Duo up in a firm hand without stepping any closer, so the woman could see but not reach him. 

"First officer," said the security guard. 

Heero nodded. 

"But not Quinto." 

Into Heero's momentary confused silence Duo hissed, "Zachary Quinto played Spock in the movie, remember?" 

"Oh, no," Heero managed. "He's a role-play character." 

"Hmm," said the woman. "Has Chang seen this?" 

"Yes." Heero looked as if he would rather not have answered that one. 

She nodded sharply. It seemed to be both acknowledgment and goodbye, for without another word she turned and went back to her desk. Heero hastened to take advantage of her waning attention and make a quiet exit. 

Duo managed to stifle his laughter at first, but couldn't restrain himself any longer when Heero's first remark in the parking lot was, "I feel like I've joined some secret nerd society, and now I'm finding out who all the other members are." 

"Well, at least _she_ didn't start an argument with me through you." 

"She didn't have to! Did you see the look she gave you? She might as well just have come out and said I'm not a true fan because you're in the wrong uniform." 

Again Duo laughed. "Do you think she and that other guy are secret lovers??" 

Now Heero too gave a laugh, his somewhat startled. "No!" 

"Aw, why not?" 

"Because I can't picture either one of them dating anyone!" 

"Well, that's what makes them perfect for each other!" 

It was raining, but Heero hadn't bothered with an umbrella for the relatively short distance across the parking lot. He did duck into his car in something of a hurry, though, and shake water off his messy hair in a manner that Duo found most adorable. 

Duo had no physical urges at this point, of course, and even the remembered urges had long since ceased to manifest, but that didn't stop him from feeling, not infrequently, a strong impulse to do things like kiss Heero, squeeze Heero, or snuggle Heero into oblivion. Thinking about how Heero would probably react if he did any of these (in any form) was depressing, so he tried not to. Sometimes, though, especially at night when Heero was lying there in bed all relaxed and pretty and often shirtless, Duo couldn't help but daydream. And this reminded him... 

"I keep thinking about what we were talking about the other day..." They were in the apartment by now, walking down the hall toward Heero's bedroom, and Heero's immediate stiffening at these words would have been hard to miss. Duo, realizing what he might be thinking, hastened on. "I mean, about sleeping and insomnia and stuff. You know what I wish I had?" 

"What?" Heero set Duo down at the end of the dresser and went to change. 

"A bed." 

From the closet Heero asked, "Like, a Barbie bed? That sort of thing?" 

"Yeah, or whatever," Duo verbally shrugged. "Something that looks like a bed and that's small enough for me." There was no comment from the closet, and Duo wanted to shout into it, _"Dammit, this is why I love you, Heero Yuy! I say, 'I want a bed,' and you **don't** say, 'But you can't sleep!'"_ But he decided against it. Instead he gave the explanation Heero hadn't even asked for. "I know I can't sleep, but I was thinking... I might as well pretend, right? Feel a little like a real person again?" 

"Well, just so you know," Heero told him very seriously, "I'm never going back onto that Barbie aisle at Wal-Mart or into a big toy store again in my life. But we can look online." 

"Can we?" Duo beamed. "Did I mention you're my hero?" 

Heero seemed to be smiling as he warned, "I'm not promising anything. You _are_ aware they'll all be pink, right?" 

"Pff, like anyone knows that better than I do." 

They _were_ all pink. They were also significantly overpriced. Actually most of the beds they found were collector's pieces that Duo recognized from previous decades, and the sellers were looking for compensation in triple digits. 

"I could get an _actual_ bed for this much," Heero protested as the third page of search results brought only higher and higher prices. "I'm sorry, Duo, this is just not going to happen." 

Trying to hide how disappointed he was at this utterly insignificant setback, Duo laughed. "Well, whatever. It's not like I really need it." 

"Well, I've got one more idea." Heero pulled up another window or whatever they were called and started setting up an email. _Duo wants a bed_, he typed. _Any chance any of your sisters had a doll bed and left it behind when they moved out? I know you have an entire antique shop in your attic. And before I forget, are you going to get us the 4th off? I'm sure we're going to need it._

"Aww, you guys are going to take even more time off for us?" Duo said as Heero sent the email and set the computer to shutting down. 

"We may need more time than just that one day, too," Heero replied, "but after that whole week off we can't really take a lot more." 

"But that week was what got me my elbows!" 

Heero, who'd picked Duo up and was heading out into the living room, was obviously smiling as he agreed with this. "I'm not complaining, and it didn't cause any problems at work, but too much more and it will. But we'll probably all be up half the night on the third, and we'll have a lot to think about on the fourth." 

"Like how to keep Trowa from going completely crazy if this doesn't work!" 

"And on _that_ pleasant note..." Heero muttered. 

"Let's read some Oz!" Duo finished for him. When Heero made a noise like a baffled and somewhat horrified laugh he added, "No use worrying about it now, right?" 

Heero seemed to hesitate for a moment before agreeing, "Right." 

Before any reading could take place, Heero had to find himself some dinner, and the time he spent messing around in the kitchen passed in relatively comfortable silence as Duo stood in his pocket and pondered. 

The implication with which he'd inadvertently alarmed Heero earlier hadn't, in fact, been untrue: he hadn't yet stopped dwelling on their little argument yesterday -- or, rather, on the way Heero had behaved: he'd been annoyed and offended, and yet had not given even the slightest hint of wanting to take it out on Duo. He'd stalked out of the room in irritation, yet had picked Duo up without even a trace of hesitation. 

Of course Duo didn't believe that Heero would actually give up or even jeopardize the progress they'd made toward the full curse-breaking month, but he would neither have been surprised nor accusatory if Heero had at least thought about it. But it didn't seem even to have crossed Heero's mind, and at this Duo was impressed and touched. 

He also still thought Heero should deal with his mom a lot more aggressively, but he wasn't going to say so again.


	120. Plastic Part 70

  


Quatre's kiss of greeting on Tuesday evening was brief; immediately thereafter he took Trowa's hand and said, "Come with me." 

Though Trowa was still wary of such ambivalent requests, whenever Quatre smiled at him now he was reminded of that first, seemingly angelic smile he'd woken up to last Saturday morning. He trusted Quatre, and would follow him without too much reluctance. He paused, though, long enough to ask, "Do I need shoes?" 

"Not if you don't want them. We're just going into my house." 

"Where in your house?" Trowa, eschewing the trouble of locating socks since it could be avoided, was following him again, through the front door into Quatre's bedroom, but his tone was suspicious. 

Quatre sounded amused as he answered. "Heero emailed me yesterday and said Duo wants a bed. So we get to look through the attic to see if one of my sisters ever left a doll bed up there." 

"Why does Duo want a bed?" wondered the bemused Trowa as Quatre opened his bedroom door. Admittedly it did sound like a request Duo would make: something he couldn't really use now and would have absolutely _no_ use for once he was human, but which would make a statement. 

Quatre shrugged. "Heero didn't say." 

They'd come out onto a large landing off of which a number of doors opened and down from which a grand staircase curved past a tall bay window to a lower level. The walls were covered with the same wood paneling as in Quatre's room, and a couple of blown-up photos in old ornate frames broke up the resultantly wide dark spaces. Cheerful voices -- children's voices, he thought -- came from somewhere, and Trowa could hear footsteps both above and below. 

As Quatre led him through a door across from his own into a hallway full of more doors and a smaller flight of stairs upward, Trowa asked, "How much of your family actually lives here?" Quatre had talked quite a bit about his family, but Trowa realized he had very little concept of where they all were. 

"My parents, of course," Quatre answered, leading him up the stairs. "My third sister and her husband and kids -- you'll probably see the kids up here. My seventh sister's still here too -- she runs HR at our downtown office -- and she's got a friend (who also works for us) who's staying here for the moment. Then there's my eighth sister's ex-girlfriend who's renting a room. She works for us too." 

"So that's... eight adults? And how many of them work for your father's company?" The family business was something else Quatre sometimes mentioned, but never very specifically. 

Quatre laughed. "Oh, most of them. We're all about nepotism around here." 

On the next landing up, there were indeed three children playing -- boys, two perhaps nine and the other maybe eleven -- and as Quatre and Trowa appeared they went still and silent, watching. Trowa was used to being stared at by children -- it happened just about every time he went out in public -- and was ready to walk by without a word, but Quatre stopped. 

"Hey, guys, what are you up to?" 

"Playing Batman," answered the oldest boy. 

"Cool; who's Batman?" 

"We're taking turns." The somewhat surly tone in which this was spoken suggested that the idea to take turns at the lead role had been passed down from some higher authority. 

By certain aspects of their faces Trowa had already guessed which two of the three were related to Quatre before Quatre pointed them out. "These are my favorite nephews Isaac and Cameron. Guys, this is Trowa." 

Trowa nodded stiffly at the children, who just stared back at him. Finally one of them -- he thought it was the one called Isaac -- addressed a question to Quatre. "Is he your _boyfriend_?" 

Smiling, Quatre nodded. 

"So that means you _kiss_ him?" 

"It sure does." 

"On the _mouth_?" 

"Yep." 

The kid's face twisted into a very comical expression of what he thought of this, and Quatre laughed. Even Trowa couldn't say he was too terribly disturbed; he didn't remember 1907 very well, but he was under the impression that this was a fairly typical nine-year-old reaction to romance of any kind. 

Turning away from the boys, who were now muttering to each other in a huddle (the visiting friend in particular seemed agitated, and kept looking back over his shoulder at the adults), Quatre shifted his attention to a trap door in the ceiling. With a pensive frown he reached up for it, but was a few inches short of the handle even when he stood on tiptoe. Trowa watched his attempts with enjoyment for a moment or two before moving to assist with his greater height. 

The door opened, with some effort as it was old and stiff, into a fold-down ladder staircase, and above was a black rectangle from which a cool draft descended. Quatre climbed first, followed by Trowa, to the sound of silence from the landing below. Only once they were standing on the attic floor, and presumably invisible to the kids, did Batman's adventures resume. 

In the darkness Quatre chuckled. Pulling Trowa to him, he murmured, "On the _mouth_," before kissing him soundly as prescribed. 

"You didn't warn me I'd be meeting family members," Trowa remonstrated when Quatre released him and began shuffling around searching for something. 

"I thought you could handle some of the smaller ones." Quatre found the switch he'd been looking for, and a number of light bulbs hanging bare and free at intervals across the room suddenly came on. 

Given what he knew about Quatre, Trowa was rather surprised to find the attic a highly disorganized graveyard of past decades. Stacks of furniture and boxes, littered with a baffling miscellany of smaller items, divided up a space that appeared larger than Trowa's entire house; little paths wound their way through as in a maze, and in the distance the wasteland of abandoned personal possessions faded almost into darkness where a light bulb had burned out. 

Quatre shook his head with a slight frown. Evidently he didn't think much of the organizational skills of his predecessors either. Still, he waded in cheerfully enough. 

"When was this house built?" Trowa asked, looking with bittersweet interest at this jumble of artifacts from various eras he himself had lived through. 

"1887, but it's only been in the family since the 40's." Quatre began walking slowly away from the trap door, eyeing the piles of items to either side. "There's a lot of interesting stuff up here, and I bet you'll recognize some of it." He gestured. "Probably that corner's a good place to start; I remember seeing some more recent things over there. Just look around for anything pink." 

"Pink?" 

"Well, if we find anything Duo can use, it'll be a Barbie something... so it'll definitely be pink." 

Trowa nodded, and, to a certain extent, obeyed. Mostly, however, he was mentally placing the objects around him in their appropriate time periods as far as he remembered how they should fit. He ran his finger around the rim of a large ceramic pot, which had once probably held a plant but now housed something crumpled and velvet (and a spider); lifted the lid on an old pressure cooker (harvest gold with brown flowers) to find a matching smaller dish of some sort inside; set rocking slightly a dusty carved chair on which rested a cardboard box full of photos, all black and white; and nearly knocked over a folded crib that stood against a tall wooden filing cabinet with peeling grey paint. 

There was, he had to admit, some fascination and nostalgia to this... but as he continued looking, he found himself sinking into an ever-increasing melancholy under the weight of so many chilly, accusatory years. It was strange and not terribly pleasant to be reminded by a house other than his own of all the time that had stood still for both him and Duo because of what he'd done. Eventually he was simply staring down at a lidless pencil box full of baseball cards without really seeing it, feeling almost numb. 

"Oh, here are some toys!" Quatre's triumphant voice drifted across and into Trowa's unpleasant reverie. Trowa looked up and over in his direction, but on the way there his eyes were caught and held. His breath was the next to catch. 

On top of a couple of old boxes, beside some kind of arrangement of dusty fake flowers in a dusty basket, was a faded catalog from perhaps sixty years ago. The whole world seemed to go silent as Trowa reached for it: the sounds of Quatre rummaging a few yards away, the boys' voices from downstairs, the footsteps from other parts of the house, even the air moving around him -- all vanished for a moment, and only came rushing back with a sort of boom as his fingertips made contact with the brittle old paper. He heard his own voice saying, in what seemed an inaudible whisper against the sudden roar of returning sound, "Quatre." 

There must have been something unusual to his tone, for Quatre immediately stopped what he was doing and came over. "What is it?" 

Trowa couldn't tear his eyes away from the object now clutched tightly in his hands, nor could he say another word. 

Quatre moved to stand beside him and look at the catalog. "Oh, yeah," he said in a tone of recognition. "We don't do consumer manufacture anymore, but we used to have a line of direct products. These days we just sell materials to manufacturers." 

The words washed over Trowa like an incomprehensible tide, and the only thing that really stuck with him was Quatre's repeated use of 'we.' Finally Trowa managed to choke out the company name from the catalog's face: "Raberba-Winner Plastics and Manufacturing?" 

"Yeah..." Quatre seemed curious and perhaps a little concerned at Trowa's demeanor. "It didn't change to 'Winner Plastics' until '77. It started out as--" 

"Raberba Manufacturing," Trowa whispered. And he sank to his knees on the hard floor.


	121. Plastic Part 71

In some alarm Quatre crouched down beside Trowa, who was kneeling limply on the floor and clutching the old catalog to his chest in much the same way he had held Duo when they'd been reunited -- and, Quatre noticed with a start, he was shedding tears now just as he had then. 

"Trowa! What's wrong?" 

"Nothing," Trowa replied with surprising haste, and repeated, "Nothing..." Continuing the trend, his tone was very similar to the one Quatre had only ever heard from him when he'd been talking to Duo that first evening. 

Settling onto his knees and putting an arm across Trowa's bent shoulders, Quatre made an inquisitive noise and then forced himself to wait patiently to be enlightened. 

Trowa brushed moisture from his face with one hand, which subsequently smeared dust in a muddy line across his cheek. "It's all going to be all right," he said, and not only were the unusually positive words unexpected, but so was the tone: it was one of absolute certainty, something Quatre hadn't thought Trowa felt about anything pleasant in this world. 

"Is it?" 

"This is a sign." Trowa finally released his tight embrace of the catalog and let it sink to his lap, his eyes still fixed on it. "The curse will break. It's going to work." 

"Because of this catalog?" 

"Raberba Manufacturing. That was the factory I worked at in 1922 and '23. That was where this all started. And now with you I've found the same company again. I had no idea it even still existed, but here I've come back around to it. To where I started. It's a complete cycle." 

While Quatre supposed he could to some extent see the logic in this, and the circumstance certainly was interesting, it wasn't something from which _he_ would have drawn any particular hope. But he would rather die than rain on this unexpected parade. "That's wonderful," he said, hugging Trowa tightly. 

Trowa twisted to return the embrace, sandwiching the catalog between them. "The curse will break," he repeated. 

"You've never really believed it would, have you?" 

Against Quatre's shoulder, Trowa shook his head. Quatre held him tighter. 

After some time, during which they simply sat in silence and Trowa's grip did not loosen, Trowa finally sat back and stared at the catalog again. He wasn't smiling, but there was an intense, focused look of profound pleasure and relief in his face that took Quatre's breath away. Trowa was so often unsure and unhappy... in this unusual moment of the precise opposite, he was more beautiful than ever. He was, Quatre thought, going to be consistently, absolutely stunning once he recovered all his vanished confidence and enjoyment of life. And Quatre was determined to help him do so in any way he could. 

"I lost my job there eventually," Trowa murmured, as if continuing a narrative. "I was looking for Duo so obsessively, I couldn't pay attention to work any longer. And after I left the city, I didn't even think about the company again for years. But eventually I realized how important a part of all this it had been: plastic wasn't a common thought back then... if I hadn't been working at a plastics factory specifically, if I hadn't had the idea of 'plastic' in my head because of the kind of business I was in, the nature of the curse would have been totally different. But since it _was_... and here, after everything, your company is still in plastics..." He finally looked up at Quatre and smiled. 

Quatre took his hand and squeezed it, returning the smile. He still wasn't certain why Trowa didn't take these circumstances as a portent of, for example, the whole thing starting all over again, but perhaps this was something a non-magician couldn't be expected to understand -- and he wasn't complaining. 

Unexpectedly, Trowa raised a hand to Quatre's face, leaned forward, and kissed him. There was no hesitance, no sluggishness in the movement, and simultaneously it seemed less desperate and fearful than Trowa's kisses had up until now; it felt more _real_, somehow, than any time Quatre's lips had been against Trowa's before. Then Trowa released him and murmured, "Thank you for bringing me here." 

That kiss had left Quatre somewhat stunned, so it was a moment before he managed in a tone of almost giddy breathlessness, "Thank Duo; he's the one who wanted the bed." 

"Yes!" Trowa got suddenly to his feet, moving with an energy Quatre had rarely seen in him. "We still need to find that." 

Quatre joined him standing and took his free hand. "This way," he said. 

"May I keep this?" Trowa held up the catalog. 

"Of course!" Quatre smiled. 

Among the promising items he had located there was indeed a dollhouse, Barbie-sized but off-brand, that was protected by a trash bag and hidden behind some other toys. Quatre thought he recognized it as having belonged to at least three of his sisters in turn; it had to be more than thirty years old, and appeared quite well-used. Many of the walls had been decorated with stickers to cover the faded wallpaper, and there were doors and shutters missing here and there. 

It was also full of furniture, all jumbled together from the whole ensemble having been carried up here inside a trash bag. Some of this was Mattel, and some of it seemed to have come with the house; the latter was mostly blue and purple and seemed to be the sturdier of the two options, but the pink Barbie bed was the only one to have a blanket and pillows. 

"I guess this will have to do," Quatre said, extracting it from among the mess and glancing through the rest of the little house again just in case an extra pillow had come free from the rubber band holding the bedding to the bed. 

Trowa took it from him and examined it. "I suppose," he said a little doubtfully. 

Quatre laughed. "I don't think there's any particular function it needs to fulfill besides looking like a bed. Let's take it to him!" 

The way Trowa brightened at this suggestion was delightful to see. And, though he didn't exactly _smile_ at Quatre's nephews and their friend on the way down, the look he gave them was a good deal more amiable and open than the one he'd given them on the way up. 

It felt a little strange to walk through Trowa's front door, close it, and then open it again onto Heero's apartment. After that, though, Quatre's mood shifted to one of slight guilt as he realized that this was the first time he'd been in here in longer than he could remember off the top of his head. It wasn't the first time he'd gotten into a relationship and rather lost track of the rest of the world; Heero knew what was going on, and knew this tendency of his... but still Quatre felt like he'd abandoned his friend. He could only hope Heero was also distracted by a new relationship and wouldn't be annoyed with him. This was something he really should have _known_, rather than having to hope and guess about, but, again, he hadn't been paying attention. Well, now he could find out. 

Heero and Duo were in the kitchen, one apparently making himself dinner and the other apparently entertaining the first. Quatre, who had always been of the opinion that Heero needed to laugh more, smiled when he heard him doing so in response to whatever Duo was saying. Perhaps things were indeed going well over here. 

"We brought you a present, Duo!" Quatre announced as he joined them. 

Duo, who was seated beside the microwave, waved his arms around excitedly. "Really? What is it??" 

Following Quatre into the kitchen (which as a consequence was rather crowded), Trowa set the little bed wordlessly on the counter beside Duo. 

Seeing this, Duo flat-out yelled (not that it was particularly loud), "Yeah! Oh, awesome!" And he kicked his legs and waved his arms until he fell over onto his side. Even then, though, he laughed and struggled to get back up until Trowa reached out and righted him. 

In contrast to Duo's extreme joy, Heero just looked quietly pleased. Quatre raised an eyebrow at him in silent query and glanced at the doll. Smile fading, Heero shook his head minutely. Quatre was instantly curious, but not about to ask in company. 

"Look at the giant lace around the pillows!" Duo was saying gleefully. He ran a hand stiffly across part of the bed. "Heero, look at this! Isn't this one of the ones that was going for a million dollars on Amazon?" 

Heero bent to examine the object. "I think you're right." 

Duo turned his grinning face toward first Trowa and then Quatre; as usual, the movement was rather disconcerting, but his apparent happiness somewhat negated the effect. "Where did this come from?" 

"My attic," Quatre volunteered, also grinning. 

"Oh, Quatre, I looooooove you!" Duo went on exultantly before anyone could say anything else, "I am so going to little girl it up tonight: pretend the _doll_ is _sleeping_ in the _bed_!" 

Everyone laughed except Trowa, but even he was smiling. 

"Seriously, though -- thanks, guys." Duo looked at them both again, beaming. 

"Have you two eaten?" Heero asked. "I was about to make something, if you want to stay." 

Quatre was about to reply that, _yes_, they wanted to stay (though he wouldn't have added that the reason was so he could watch Heero and Duo and try to figure out what the hell was going on), but checked and looked at Trowa instead; he _assumed_ Trowa wouldn't mind, but figured he'd let him answer for himself. 

Seeing Quatre's look, Trowa gave a slight nod and turned toward Heero. 

"Thank you," he said in that formal way he sometimes had. "That would be very nice."


	122. Plastic Part 72

  


"But everyone seems to despise him, for some reason. I even saw him voted 'most hated video game character' on one forum." 

It was Wednesday, and, excepting some minor system issues that IT was working frantically to fix, rather slow. Usually such a day was the time for everyone to catch up on paperwork and processing, but of course Wufei had no such intention. The problem was that he was too damn good at his job and always on top of his paperwork. 

"I believe it's all because of the rumors about the expansion. They don't dislike him for any other, legitimate reason." 

This was Wufei's third visit to Heero, who didn't even know what he was talking about this time. 

"But he's gone through so much; he's had very believable character growth. People say he's too hot-headed, or that he has no actual motivations, but I disagree on both counts." 

How had this started, anyway? Oh, yes, Heero's comment on Wufei's tie (which, he realized in retrospect, had been a grave mistake) had led Wufei to talk about some costume he was making, and this somehow (unsurprisingly) had segued into a lot of unnecessary information about the character he would be dressing as. 

"He has a much more believable viewpoint than Thrall -- believable from an orc perspective, that is. Too many players are thinking like humans; that's their problem." 

And Heero didn't even have the benefit of Duo's opinion, since Wufei had once picked the doll up. He was looking forward to whatever Duo would have to say when Wufei was gone, though. Assuming Heero could ever get rid of him. 

"He's still _my_ favorite NPC, and I believe he'll be a very effective leader." 

The biggest problem was that, although Heero was ostensibly parallel to Dorothy in rank, he wasn't equipped with disciplinary options that weren't more trouble for him than they were worth. Usually this wasn't an issue, since it wasn't his job to keep an eye on the people around him in that capacity, and Dorothy was usually there anyway -- but today she was, like most of the sales staff, buried in catch-up work. 

"I'll be sure to bring in pictures once I get the costume done... though maybe I'll wait for The Surgery." 

Oh, yes, of course, The Surgery. 

"Maybe wear it in on Halloween?" Heero murmured, without much hope. 

"Oh, I should have The Surgery before then... I'll just bring in pictures." 

_And I'll have to look at them_, Heero despaired. 

"Though I still haven't decided what to do about the tusks." 

"There may be a surgery for that too." 

Wufei took him seriously. "Yes, I've considered that. I don't believe it would be convenient." 

"No, probably not." 

"Did I tell you I got an estimate for the other one, though?" Before Heero could answer this, however -- assuming he was even able to think of an answer that wouldn't utterly destroy what little professional relationship they had -- Wufei went on hurriedly, "Well, I'll tell you about it later." Then he turned on his heel and left the cubicle. A moment later Dorothy walked by. 

"Is he getting his testicles removed?" Duo wondered. "I didn't think most veterinarians would do that to a human." 

Heero bent over and buried his face in his arms on the desk. He wasn't used to restraining uproarious laughter, simply because the impulse almost never came over him, so he wasn't nearly as good at such restraint as most people would have assumed. His shoulders shook and his head spun, and he was sure that some sound was escaping his lips, for all his efforts. Tears were _definitely_ running from his eyes. 

Duo seemed to be trying his best to keep a straight face (figuratively speaking, of course), but it wasn't working. Also he sounded pleased (if a little startled) that he'd made Heero laugh so hard, and it was several very long moments before either of them was able to stop. 

Finally Duo said, "So if he's not getting neutered, what Surgery is this that he has to assign capital letters to?" 

Heero still hadn't entirely recovered, but he managed to choke out, "It's a surgery to... to give him pointy ears. He's been... he's been talking about having it done as long as he's worked here... nobody believes anymore that he's actually ever going to do it." 

"Whaaat?" Duo started laughing again, more heartily this time. "Seriously?" 

Heero could only nod. 

"Oh, I'm so going to get a job here," Duo sighed when he'd calmed down a little -- though he was still chuckling -- "and mess with that guy all day long." 

"Be my guest," Heero replied. He noticed then that he'd received an email sometime in the last few minutes, and, still laughing somewhat, turned his attention toward the computer. He was loath to open it, though, when he saw that it was from Quatre and had no subject line; he didn't want to spoil the excellent mood he was suddenly in -- but an email from someone that was simultaneously his best friend and his manager was not something he could ignore. 

_So what page are we all on?_ Quatre wondered. _What's going on with you and Duo? Does he know about me and Trowa? It's hard to tell, but it seemed like he was giving us funny looks last night._

Heero hadn't really wanted to explain this, even to his best friend, but felt now that he had to. Stifling a sigh, he set up a reply and thought about what to say. Finally he forced himself to type, _Duo is still in love with Trowa. I haven't told him about you two. I don't want to hurt him. I haven't decided what to do yet._ Then he forced himself to send the message immediately. Usually he liked to proofread things a few times beforehand, but knew he would talk himself out of disclosing his personal thoughts if he did that now. 

The answer came almost immediately: _Are you sure?_

_No, I'm not,_ Heero responded. _That makes it worse._

_Do you want me to talk to him?_

Heero smiled bitterly. It was just like Quatre to offer that: kind-hearted and officious. _Thank you, but no,_ he emailed back. _I'll take care of it._

_Make sure you do!_ Quatre returned. _I'm getting us the 4th off, and I've got some great ideas about what you and Duo could spend that day doing... but that won't work if you haven't resolved this. I know what I'll be spending that day on._

Heero snorted, and replied, _I bet you do._

"Stupid emails?" Duo wondered, hearing him. 

Heero looked down at the doll, and was struck once again with the idea, suggested by Duo's comment, of Wufei having his testicles removed in order to dress up as a _World of Warcraft_ character. He felt a grin spreading across his face again, and it only widened when Duo returned it. Heero was surprised and delighted to find Duo capable of putting him into a cheerful frame of mind tenacious enough to last through an uncomfortable reminder of a problem he had with Duo himself. He couldn't help thinking that to have Duo around in the long-term could only make him consistently happier. Well, depending on the context. 

"So tell me everything you plan on doing to Wufei as soon as you work here," he said.


	123. Plastic Part 73

  


"Do you like dogs?" 

Appearing a little surprised at the question, Trowa looked up at the newly-arrived Quatre. "I suppose so," he said. 

"Good. Come with me. You'll need shoes this time." 

Today Trowa just smiled and stood from where he'd been sitting at his table with a book and some notes in front of him. He seemed actually to have been working, which was good; but Quatre liked the smile and the immediate compliance even better. 

As Trowa went into the next room to don shoes and contact lenses, Quatre followed him and explained. "Usually I play with the dogs after work every day, but lately..." 

Trowa made a noise of comprehension. 

"My dad pointed out earlier that I've been neglecting them. It's not exactly my _responsibility_ to take care of them, but pretty much nobody else ever does since I always do. So now I feel really bad." Because the dogs, unlike Heero, didn't understand about very engrossing new relationships. 

"So nobody's been feeding them?" Trowa wondered, sounding a little startled. 

"Oh, no! Darryl feeds them; they've always got food and water. Just nobody's been paying much attention to them." 

As they made their way into Quatre's house and thence outside, he explained further about the family dog tradition. "Each of us got a turn to choose one, usually for our tenth birthday. It could be any breed as long as it was an outdoor dog, and since we were all spoiled rotten it didn't matter how expensive it was to get. Most of the time my sisters took theirs with them when they left, but not all of them are still alive. The dogs, I mean -- the first one would have been about thirty years ago." 

When this house had been built, it was practically in the middle of nowhere, quite a few miles from the nearest town; evidently the original owner had been a bit of a recluse. The town had grown gradually into a city, and expanded so that its suburban edges were not far from this estate, and these days a few other large properties had come to surround the Winners'; but the area was still a county rather than a city zone, and nothing had ever forced the property lines inward -- and therefore what some might call yards were by others still referred to as 'the grounds.' And despite having visited four floors of the house and seen its entry hall, small dining room, butler's pantry, and kitchen, still Trowa glanced around in some surprise when they emerged through the back door and looked out over the yard. 

"I used to attend parties at places like this," he murmured, his eyes tracing the flagstone paths around the edges of the neat lawn and the long strips of garden that lined the tall iron fence surrounding the property. 

"Does it bother you to remember?" 

"Only a little." And though his smile was wan, it was the second one Quatre had gotten from him that day. Quatre squeezed Trowa's hand, then pulled him down the path between the sandbox and the kitchen garden and onto the lawn, where he whistled. 

Cairo was a tired old Canaan dog that rarely hurried anywhere anymore and thus was outpaced and quickly overtaken in the race around the house by Scrat. The latter, a hyper little beagle, was a fairly recent acquisition, having been chosen less than a year before by Quatre's nephew Cameron, who never played with her. Scrat didn't seem to resent this, mostly because she didn't seem to resent anything: she loved everyone and everything with an energetic impartiality that consistently annoyed the calmer and more selective Cairo. 

Now Scrat came wiggling up to Quatre, whining and occasionally leaping into the air in her excitement. Quatre was able to scratch her all over, worry her ears, and tell her what a good girl she was before Cairo caught up. Then he turned his attention to the Canaan while Scrat turned hers toward Trowa. 

Cairo had the dignity of a cat, and always greeted Quatre with a solemnity that seemed barely able to admit any pleasure. Only the fact that, by contrast, he was utterly aloof and indifferent to everyone _besides_ Quatre kept his human from sadly believing that the pet he had personally chosen and named didn't like him at all. Today Cairo's look seemed to be one of reproof, too, as if demanding to know why Quatre had been absent from the back yard for so long. 

"I'm sorry!" Quatre told him, rubbing his head and neck and back. He found as he did so that Scrat was jumping around him again, which was a little surprising as Quatre would have assumed she couldn't possibly be finished getting acquainted with Trowa yet. Quatre turned to her and said, "Where's your ball? Can you get your ball?" Excitedly Scrat ran off, while Cairo moved to investigate Trowa. 

"This is Cairo," Quatre introduced them. "He's a Canaan dog. He's usually not very friendly to most people..." Quatre had intended to end that sentence there, but Cairo, as his head and flank were petted, was unexpectedly leaning against Trowa in evident approval. So Quatre went on fairly smoothly, "But he's got good taste. Good boy, Cairo!" 

At this point Scrat came flying back with her ball, which Quatre had to wrestle from her mouth. Then he threw it overarm as far out as he could across the lawn, and he, Trowa, and Cairo stood still watching the beagle run after it. And as she raced off, bounding erratically across the grass, missed the ball, skidded, backtracked, got it half into her mouth and then dropped it, picked it up again, and returned at full speed, ears flopping like fuzzy wild wings, something very unusual happened. 

Trowa laughed. 

The dogs and their concerns momentarily entirely forgotten, Quatre turned to stare at his boyfriend in wonder and delight. He'd never heard him laugh before. Not once. He realized now, in fact, that he hadn't ever considered the _idea_ of Trowa laughing, as if the two concepts were just too completely incompatible to have crossed his mind at the same time. Quatre was sure that the grin on his face was one of those silly-looking childish ones he just couldn't help sometimes, because Trowa had a _wonderful_ laugh. It made Quatre want to drag him inside and up to his room and do any number of things to him. 

Scrat was whining and jumping, pushing her slobbery mouth and its slobbery burden against Quatre's leg, so he eventually forced himself to tear his eyes from Trowa and throw the ball again. But he looked back at his companion immediately he could, feeling his gaze inexorably drawn. 

Trowa was petting Cairo, who still seemed to be enjoying the attention more than he generally did. "Does this one play?" 

"He's got a rope he likes to wrestle with, but it's hard to convince him to bring it to you anymore." Quatre crouched down to Cairo's level and scratched the dog's ears. "Get your rope, Cairo," he suggested. "Go get your rope!" Cairo looked at him thoughtfully, then stood slowly and wandered away -- whether actually to find his rope or not Quatre couldn't guess. 

While Quatre was thus occupied, Trowa had been trying to get Scrat's ball from her to throw it again, but for some reason she wouldn't give it to him. She wasn't being unpleasant, but she backed away whenever he reached for her; and the moment she noticed that Quatre's attention had been freed up by Cairo's exit, she bounded over and dropped the ball at his feet, wagging her tail furiously. 

"That's weird," Quatre remarked as he picked the ball up and threw it again. "Usually Scrat likes everyone and Cairo likes no one." 

"I'm just backwards, I guess," replied Trowa. 

"You're just _adorable_, I guess." 

Trowa looked over. "Am I?" 

With a roll of eyes, Quatre sidled up to him and kissed him. He'd have hugged him too, but had been handling too much dog to want to put his hands on anyone until after some soapy water. 

Trowa was stiff against him, and looked a little embarrassed when Quatre pulled away. Perhaps he was aware of the many windows through which they could potentially be seen. Quatre grinned and turned back to Scrat. At the same time he noticed Cairo returning with his rope. 

As the beagle tore off again after the ball, Cairo came with great solemnity to sit beside Trowa, holding his rope in an aloof manner suggesting it was all the same to him whether or not he was played with. When Trowa took the other end of the rope, however, Cairo tugged and growled with his usual level of enjoyment. 

Though Cairo quickly tired of wrestling and settled down in the grass nearby, Scrat would chase her ball until she was panting and stumbling. By then it was quite dark out, and there were sounds of a lot of movement inside the house. Assuming Trowa wasn't ready for more familial introductions yet, Quatre hurried him quietly upstairs. They couldn't avoid Darryl, the cook, and he would be sure to tell everyone in the house he happened to talk to about Quatre's visitor -- the way he watched them as they went through the kitchen attested to this -- but at least he didn't detain them with questions, and they encountered no one else. 

Upstairs, Quatre ushered Trowa first into a bathroom, where they could wash their hands, and then into his bedroom, where he immediately turned upon him and immobilized him by sliding arms up over his shoulders and around his neck. 

"Even my dog likes you," he murmured. 

"Only the one," replied Trowa. "The other one wouldn't even give me the ball to throw." 

"Yeah, well... Scrat's an idiot, and she's Cameron's anyway." 

As Quatre then began to carry out his delayed reaction to Trowa's earlier laugh, all Trowa could say in response to this was, "Mmm."


	124. Plastic Part 74

  


It was one of those nights... the ones where Heero had gone to bed without a shirt on and the blanket had slipped down his chest as he slept and Duo couldn't stop staring. The only light in the room came from the half-open door that let in just a little through the glass at the end of the hall, but Duo had better night vision as a doll than he'd had as a human (whether because dolls typically had better night vision than humans, or because he'd spent enough time inside toy chests and closets to develop the skill, he didn't know). Colors were different and shapes were softened a bit, but he could make out enough details to keep him riveted. 

He was wondering about attraction, and how it worked when you happened to be a doll. 

As a human, he'd been involved exclusively with women. He'd come to the realization that he liked men only after a number of years missing Trowa, and it had been even longer before he'd ever looked at any other man with interest or attraction. By then he'd already left even his remembered physical sensations behind... so what had that attraction been based on? What had led him to look at any given man and think, _He's hot!_ (or possibly, depending on the decade, _What a sheik!_)? 

It wasn't a translation of what he'd found attractive in women, since the criteria were totally different. It couldn't have been a positive physical response, since he didn't feel those. And it couldn't have been based on a deeper interest of some kind, because he'd never been _interested_-interested in any of those guys. So it really must have been entirely visual: purely superficial aesthetic appeal. He remembered again what Trowa had said to him that black day so long ago, about being petty and fake, and he wondered, as he not infrequently did even after all these years, how true it was. 

But whatever Duo might be, his attraction to Heero was different; he was absolutely certain of that. Heero was gorgeous, of course, but Duo honestly didn't know how much of that was face and figure and how much was the fact that Duo knew him and loved his personality every bit as much as his looks. He would have found Heero handsome even if Heero hadn't been. Hell, maybe he _wasn't_, to the rest of the world, and Duo just couldn't tell. 

He couldn't even remember what he'd thought of the way Heero looked when they'd first met; perhaps he'd found him attractive, but he hadn't given it much consideration one way or another. But since that time, his appreciation for Heero's physique had grown hand-in-hand with his appreciation for everything else about Heero, and the two were now inseparable. 

Yes, there was definitely more to this than just the visual. Because Heero still -- indeed, increasingly -- made Duo yearn to _touch_ him, despite how futile it would be to do so at this point. He just wanted to be closer to him, wanted to be _with_ him in a more definitive sense. The way Heero was lying there right now, for instance -- on his back, but twisted a little in this direction, one arm up beneath his pillow -- seemed designed for Duo to curl up right against him with his head on Heero's collarbone and his hand on Heero's chest, feeling Heero's warmth and hearing his breath close by. 

He wondered what Heero _smelled_ like. 

He wondered if he could make any of this happen... if Heero would be any more interested in him once he was human... 

He sighed faintly, and his gaze strayed for a moment from his quiet companion in the bed. As it fell on his own bed -- his lovely new long, narrow bed with the rose-pattern blanket currently tucked around his legs -- he grinned. He was still excessively glad of this; he'd become an expert, in the spirit of taking what he could get, at finding pleasure in even the least significant things. Doll furniture, while it might not really do anything for him, could definitely make him happy if he allowed it to. 

This particular happiness he attributed to Heero, even though it had been Quatre and Trowa that had actually brought him the bed. Duo was almost certain they'd made some kind of date out of that, which was weird but pleased him greatly. Still, for some reason, when he looked at the little Duo-sized pillows with their excessive lace and the pink headboard, it was Heero's kindness and forbearance that came immediately to mind. 

At that moment, as Duo sat reflecting, his eye was caught by movement to his right. He looked over and down in time to see a number of hairy legs appear around the alarm clock, followed by more legs, a bunch of creepy eyes, central parts whose names Duo didn't know, and yet more legs. The spider's abrupt advent so close by startled a cry out of him, and, quiet though he was -- and three in the morning though it was -- Heero immediately awoke. 

"Whasful?" he asked as he sat halfway up. 

"Sorry," Duo said. "I didn't mean to yell." 

More coherently this time, Heero asked, "What's wrong?" 

"Just a spider." 

Heero sat up completely now, and pulled his blanket aside. "Where?" 

"Riiiiiight here, like, two inches away from me." Duo gestured to the creature, which had gone motionless in that freaky way spiders did, as if they were pondering their next victim. 

Heero stood and peered through the shadows down at the nightstand. He didn't seem able to see the spider until it moved, which it did when he picked Duo up, but then he deftly scooped it into his other hand and turned toward the door. 

"Oh, my god," Duo shuddered, "you are holding it in your bare hand." 

"If I looked for something else to put in it, it'd get away," Heero replied, yawning. He shuffled to the balcony door, which he had to open with the hand that held Duo to avoid crushing the spider, and then stepped outside. He let the spider go onto the railing, and Duo watched from his safe distance as, after a moment of further cogitation, it ran off the hand and away. 

Then he made another shuddering noise and laughed sheepishly. "Now I feel like a little kid." 

Heero chuckled, then yawned again as he turned to go back inside. "So Duo's afraid of spiders, is he?" 

"You would be too if they were as big as your face!" 

"Good point." 

"Once one was _on_ me," Duo recalled, knowing it sounded more childish than ever but unable to restrain himself. "It was super gross. There's one really good thing about not being able to feel anything: you can't get that skin-crawling feeling like there's a million spiders on you after you've dealt with one." 

Once more Heero laughed as he set Duo down on the little bed and tucked him in again. 

"Sorry I woke you up," Duo added, watching Heero get back into his own bed and arrange the blanket as he lay down. 

"Don't worry about it." Heero sounded sleepy, amused, and not even the tiniest bit annoyed. Then he turned onto his side and went still. 

As before, Duo stared at him contemplatively in the dark, conscious now of what seemed to be the emotional equivalent of burning heat -- an aching combination of fondness and pleasure and longing so intense it felt almost physical. He wasn't entirely sure what it was about the inconsequential events that had just taken place, which Heero might not even remember in the morning, but he was more than a little moved by the fact that Heero was willing to get up in the middle of the night for something so stupid and didn't even seem inclined to grumble about it. 

This was going to drive Duo crazy more surely than any six months spent on a Goodwill shelf. It was clear that his feelings for Heero were stronger than he'd realized, or perhaps had simply become so lately. Heero was so kind to him, so wonderful... yet there were still moments when Duo received a very definite impression that Heero just didn't see him in that light. And that uncertainty was the worst. If he could only know for sure, one way or another, he would know how to govern his own thoughts -- whether to start trying to get over this, or to look forward to pleasures ahead. 

Unfortunately, the chances that Heero regarded him solely as a friend still seemed too high for Duo to say anything. He would not bring that kind of awkwardness into an arrangement that was already trying for Heero. Once he was human again and able to stop inconveniencing Heero on a daily basis, things would be different. Then, if the answer did turn out to be, _"I'm sorry, Duo, I'm not interested,"_ as Duo feared, at least he would be free to walk away and not occasion a week full of unhappy, uncomfortable silences. 

Because just a little over a week was all they had left, right? Duo could wait that long, right? This aphysical tightness in the empty region where his heart would have been if he'd had one wouldn't kill him before then, right? 

He sighed. He should probably wait a little longer than that, even. It was entirely possible that Heero just couldn't muster any particular interest in a _doll_, however amusing and charismatic. A sad reason, perhaps, but Duo wouldn't really be able to blame him. And if that was the case, declaring his own interest the very moment he was human again seemed jumping the gun a trifle. Give Heero time to get to know him as a human, and maybe... 

God, this was all too frustrating, and he didn't want to think about it any more. If he could just get through nine more days without these kinds of thoughts... If only he could _sleep_... 

Of course, was his subsequent, bittersweet reflection, if he _could_ sleep, he would probably just dream about Heero anyway, and only end up making things worse.


	125. Plastic Part 75

  


Quatre thought he could definitely get used to waking up in Trowa's bed late on Saturday mornings in the warmth of a very long (or possibly just recurring) afterglow. Actually, he thought he could get used to waking up next to Trowa any day, anywhere, no matter what they'd done the night before. 

Now the sleeping magician's hand rested lightly on Quatre's arm as he lay on his side with his head tilted in this direction; as Quatre awoke, he smiled at the sight of the pale, peaceful face not far from his own. He slid forward to press himself against his lover, wrapped an arm around him, and laid his forehead against Trowa's. This, of course, woke Trowa up, and Quatre was pleased by the thought that the first thing to meet Trowa's eyes would be Quatre's. The moon must be about at the half. 

"Good morning," Quatre smiled. 

Slowly Trowa returned the expression. Quatre noted that, for all Trowa's increased cheer and confidence over the last few days, he yet looked at Quatre as if astonished he was there. And, while Quatre was still flattered that Trowa seemed to attach so much value to his presence and attentions, he still _wasn't_ terribly pleased that Trowa seemed to believe they might cease at any time. But whatever its type, Quatre loved to see Trowa's smile. 

"Good morning," Trowa said. 

Quatre kissed him on the cheek. "It's Saturday," he said contentedly. 

"Yes, it is," Trowa agreed. 

"What are you going to do today?" He could provide a suggestion or two if Trowa didn't have any concrete ideas. 

Trowa did, though. "Continue some research I started the other day." 

"For your book?" Quatre ran his fingers idly over Trowa's smooth, bare arm. 

"No... Since the other day, I've been thinking about the curse ending, and I've been doing some research again into past curses that I have documentation of. I don't know how likely it is, but I believe there is a possibility that when the curse is broken, all the time I've lived will catch up with me at once." 

Quatre's hand on Trowa's arm stilled. "What would happen then?" He feared he already knew the answer. 

"I would die," Trowa replied, simply and calmly. 

Quatre took a deep breath, trying to push past the cold, clutching feeling these words had called up in his heart. He tried to match Trowa's disinterest as he remarked, "Like the knights in Indiana Jones." 

"Like M. Valdemar," Trowa replied in a tone that clearly indicated he had never seen Indiana Jones and was submitting this instead. Quatre, in turn, had no idea who M. Valdemar was, but thought they were nonetheless on the same dreary page. 

"What about Duo?" Quatre's mouth had gone dry. 

Trowa shook his head. "The precedent for fully transformative curses is that the victim simply returns to his previous state, takes up where he left off. But for the caster, it's more of a condition being lifted, which may be a problem for me. I'll leave information easy to find about whom to contact in case this happens." 

"You seem awfully calm about all this." 

"I should have been dead years ago. I've been living for the breaking of this curse for so long, it only seems natural that my life should end with it." 

Quatre stared at him, unsure of what to say. The implication that Trowa had been and still was existing solely for this, and that when this was over it would be perfectly acceptable for him to die; that there was nothing else in the world that meant enough to him even to be referenced in his considerations on the subject... 

From someone like Trowa, Quatre definitely didn't expect a declaration of love and devotion at this point... but to be told, essentially, that he was so unimportant, that he'd made so little difference in Trowa's life, that his presence weighed nothing in the question of whether Trowa would rather be alive or dead... perhaps he was simply arrogant, but he'd thought he meant more to Trowa than that. 

But, then, maybe he was overreacting, applying to himself what really wasn't about him at all. It might just be Trowa thinking badly of himself again, and assuming it made sense for anyone else to agree with him. 

"I don't know what the physical effects would be," Trowa went on placidly, "but my guess is that my body would go through rapid decomposition and probably disintegrate." 

Quatre sat up. 

"No body for the coroner is the greatest problem I can see if anyone wanted to, for instance, take legal possession of my house. But one of my contacts is a legal consultant, and she understands my situation; she can make sure things go smoothly, though I don't know what she's likely to charge if I'm no longer around to do her favors." 

"Are you leaving a will?" Quatre couldn't quite believe he was having this conversation. 

Trowa frowned. "I currently have one that leaves everything to charity. I'd like to leave Duo something, but he doesn't legally exist at this point." 

Quatre's manager brain immediately started suggesting possible solutions, but the rest of his head and heart just wanted to get away from this discussion. Of course if what Trowa said did come to pass, it was best to be prepared... but the way he was talking about it was, frankly, quite painful. It wasn't only the idea of Trowa leaving him so soon, but Trowa's apparent indifference to how Quatre felt about it. And then there was the fact that the word 'decomposition' really shouldn't ever be used in bed. 

Quatre slid out and went to the chair where he'd put his things last night, keeping his back to Trowa. Finally he forced himself to say, "Well, it's good that you have contacts and some kind of plan, just in case." 

He could hear Trowa behind him rising wordlessly, and Quatre began to dress in the same silence. It seemed they were done with the conversation, but in his head it was far from over. He was so perturbed... he needed to go somewhere else and calm down. 

Trowa didn't ask him to stay; Trowa consistently gave every indication of wanting Quatre around except this. When Quatre was here, Trowa seemed glad of it... but when he was gone, perhaps Trowa forgot about him -- at least to the extent where he could calmly consider his upcoming death without thinking of him at all. But Quatre couldn't keep having these thoughts here in Trowa's presence. You didn't chide your boyfriend of less than a month for not thinking of you when he realized he might die soon, no matter how peaceful he was about it... no matter how much you cared about him. 

Quatre's goodbye was a little cool, for all he tried not to let it be, but if Trowa noticed, he said nothing of it. So Quatre went back into his own house feeling cold and sad and agitated. A hot shower didn't really help his state of mind, for the only thing he could think about was Trowa -- Trowa's quiet conversation and calming presence, and how much he didn't want to lose him so soon after he'd found him. He didn't want to say goodbye. He wanted Trowa not to want to say goodbye... but perhaps that was asking too much. 

As usual on a Saturday, the house was fairly loud, and Quatre's phone rang as he walked through it to add to the din. Observing the name of the friend that was calling, knowing it would just be an invitation to go out and drink tonight, he turned the entire thing off. He felt himself drifting toward the conservatory where he could make his own noise and drown everything out for a while. That he found the room empty was a relief, as he didn't feel like explaining his mood to anyone. 

His eyes and intentions moved indecisively from piano to violin, but eventually settled on the former because there was less preparation necessary: he had only to slide onto the bench and uncover the keys to begin playing. This was another thing he normally did on a daily basis but had been neglecting lately, and at the moment he took a bittersweet pleasure from being back at the instrument. He rambled through a few songs he knew by heart before pulling some less familiar sheet music from inside the bench and setting to with a vengeance. And all the while he thought about Trowa. 

The biggest problem was that, while Quatre felt he had a decent imagination, he really couldn't put himself in Trowa's shoes with any kind of certainty. What did you feel like after living in misery for ninety years? Immortal not by choice but because of your own mistake; knowing you had a task to complete but never seeing how; unable to fulfill your purpose in life but unable to die? Perhaps, after such an existence, death would be specifically appealing. Perhaps Trowa would be surprised to find that Quatre didn't see it that way. 

The conclusion he came to at last was that Trowa's manner of telling him his news probably wasn't a reflection of how Trowa felt about him, but rather of a frame of reference so alien that Quatre could only just begin to see it. Trowa hadn't meant to hurt him, and probably wasn't even aware that he had -- and Quatre would like to keep it that way. He didn't want to lose Trowa, but that matter was out of his hands. What he _did_ have some control over was how the potentially last days of Trowa's life would go, and he didn't want to spoil them with a reproof that Trowa might not even understand. 

He stopped playing mid-movement and pulled out his phone to turn it back on and check the time; he found he'd been in here almost two hours with these bleak thoughts. Was Trowa still over there researching his own possible death in cold but placid aloneness, unaware of the reason Quatre had left but believing it was no more than he deserved? 

Abruptly an overwhelmingly sorrowful feeling welled up in Quatre, a combination of forlorn longing and an aching pain that, at least at the moment, could not be healed. He knew where he really needed to be right now, whether he'd entirely worked through his thoughts on this or not. With a sad little sound, he scrambled off the piano bench and hastened from the room, hurrying back to his own and the enchanted door therein, desperate to return to Trowa.


	126. Plastic Part 76

  


Heero had accomplished very little at home on Saturday, as he'd been too busy helping Relena get some of her furniture to a consignment store and fondly watching Duo flirt with her. Technically Relena didn't need to be getting rid of the contents of her apartment just yet, but she was so eager for her wedding and moving in with Colin that apparently certain organizational activities in preparation for that were sometimes the only way she could keep herself from going crazy. So, since she'd known Lindsay would be out most of the day, she'd bribed her brother with pizza to help her make sure the furniture she was selling was clean and in good repair, which had turned into a many-hours-long term of hanging out. 

Ironically, when that little party had broken up, it had been so Relena could go off to the dinner with their parents that Heero had claimed a prior engagement to get out of, and Heero could spend the evening not having dinner with his parents. Relena had reminded him that he was going to have to accept the invitation next time or risk insulting their mother, and she threw a surreptitiously thoughtful look at Duo as she said this. 

At any rate, this had prevented him from doing much at home besides wasting time and reading to Duo, so his usually weekly cleaning took place on Sunday instead. What he was really concerned about was the vacuuming, which he'd neglected for a while. 

As he was getting this done, he came across the doll he'd bought off Amazon a couple of weeks ago in order to divest it of its uniform. He'd completely forgotten it in the midst of Duo's excitement about the gift, and poor Spock had fallen to the floor and been hidden by the skirt of the sofa in back. Now Heero picked the thing up and looked at it thoughtfully. 

"Aww," said Duo, who was, as often, in Heero's jeans pocket. "I forgot about him." 

"This one's an 'it,'" Heero smirked. 

"So it is." Duo shook his head pityingly. "Put a paper towel on that thing!" He added in a suddenly much-altered tone, as if he was seriously concerned but masking it with casualness, "Unless you're just going to throw it away." 

Considering how unnerving it would be to see a body that resembled his own tossed carelessly into a trash can, Heero answered immediately, "No, I wouldn't throw it away; it's in such good shape. I'll send Quatre to Goodwill with it; or wait 'til you're human again, so you won't have to go, and take it myself." 

"Oh, I think I'd be OK to go to Goodwill if you were there to protect me." 

Heero, who was playing with paper towels and making a skirt for the second time in his life, smiled at this. "You know, I can't really see you as a damsel in distress." 

"Really?" Duo sounded pleased. "Even though I can barely even move on my own?" 

Heero shrugged. "Maybe physically you need some help sometimes, but you definitely don't have the personality of someone who needs 'protecting.'" He was heading into the computer room by now, taking Spock to set by his computer so he'd remember to deal with it at some point. 

"Well, thanks, Heero!" said Duo in satisfaction. "It's nice of you to say so." 

Heero liked the way Duo said his name. He couldn't help contrasting the doll in his left hand with the doll in his right, nor thinking in some interest of how much more real one seemed than the other. Even though he'd never seen Duo except as a doll, even though the Spock figure was modeled after a living person he _had_ seen (on screen, at least), Duo seemed infinitely more human in every possible way. Heero could picture Duo as a human a hundred times more clearly than he could Zachary What's-His-Name, and he was definitively attracted to one and not the other -- hot though Zachary was. 

He thought about Duo as a human all too much these days; as he went back to his vacuuming, he was dwelling on the image once again. He wondered how accurate it was. A week from tomorrow night, assuming everything worked properly, he would find out, and he speculated that it might drive him mad. That he would find Duo attractive as a human, whatever he looked like, he had no doubt whatsoever, and he was bracing himself for it. But he feared he could never be adequately prepared for whatever form Duo would present. 

Once he'd finished dealing with the carpets and had put the vacuum away in the coat closet where it lived, he pulled Duo out of his pocket and looked at him. 

"What?" Duo wondered. 

Heero tugged on the untied end of the doll's little braid. "Was your hair really like this?" he asked. 

"Yep!" Duo sounded a little curious, probably wondering where the question had come from, but didn't seem to mind answering. "I guess the curse liked it too, since it left it like this." 

"That's a lot of hair," Heero murmured. He hadn't really thought about it before, but Duo's braid went all the way down past his lower back; on a human that would probably equal _pounds_. 

"Yep!" said Duo again, this time in a tone of great pride. "It was the envy of all the lovely ladies." 

"Yeah, I bet. I don't think I've ever met a guy with that much hair." 

"Yes, you have: that super-gay friend of yours." 

"Oh, Zechs?" Heero hadn't thought of him. "I guess you're right." 

Deliberately to pet the hair in question as he'd once seen Trowa do Heero did not dare, though his hand longed to feel its texture again. And since he'd never braided anyone's hair and really had no idea how, he couldn't even use the excuse of repairing the failing braid. But his brain was flooded with images... he knew what he would be fantasizing about tomorrow in the shower... 

"And how 'bout you?" Duo wondered. "Was your hair always all messy and stuff like that? Did you ever bleach it like your sister does?" 

"The style's always been about the same, but..." Heero grimaced slightly. "Quatre once convinced me to bleach part of it, back in high school. Just the top..." He gestured. "He called it 'frosting' or something." 

"And you hated it," Duo guessed, sounding amused. 

Heero nodded. 

"I want to see pictures!" 

Heero snorted. He was looking around now for The Scarecrow of Oz, since continuing to stare lustfully at Duo didn't seem advisable. 

"There must be some," persisted Duo. "I remember listening to you guys go on and on and on about those pictures of you and Relena at your parents' house; it sounded like there were about a million." 

"_I_ wasn't going on and on and on." 

"No, you never do. But pictures? Are there pictures of your frosty hair?" 

"Probably somewhere," Heero mumbled. "Do you want Oz?" 

"Yooouuu are being evasive. I bet there _are_ a bunch of pictures, and _you're_ embarrassed about them, and _I_ will totally see them one day and see how your hair looked." 

"I plead the Fifth." 

"You _are_ the Fifth!" 

Heero laughed. In actuality, though he hadn't much liked the bleach effect in his hair back then, he wasn't particularly embarrassed about pictures from high school -- but it amused Duo to believe he was, so Heero let him think that. 

"Oh, and I do want Oz," Duo added. 

So Heero, who by then had located the book, headed for the couch to make use of it.


	127. Plastic Part 77

  


"Do you want to come play with the dogs with me again?" 

Quatre had made a policy of not mentioning the whole death thing at all if he didn't have to -- thereby refraining both from reprimanding Trowa and from upsetting himself -- but that didn't mean he wasn't thinking of it just about every moment he was with Trowa. Little unspoken addendums kept appearing after his statements; this one was, _"While you have the chance?"_

"Certainly," said Trowa, setting his book aside and rising. "Let me get ready." 

Aware that he would probably rather not know, Quatre did not ask him what he was working on. He'd been buried in that same book when Quatre had visited earlier on his lunch break, and Quatre simply wasn't interested in hearing what it contained. Instead, he followed Trowa into the next room. 

He seemed to have done a good job getting Trowa into the habit of going to bed at night; Trowa almost always had his contacts out when Quatre came over anymore, and had to put them in if they went anywhere -- whereas previously he'd never seemed to remove them, as he'd so rarely bothered with intentional sleep. Now as Quatre watched him insert the lenses, he reflected that, for one reason or another, Trowa probably wouldn't be needing to buy any more of them. 

Once again they managed to sneak through the Winner house without encounter, but soon thereafter their luck ran out. Evidently his parents had either noticed or been alerted to their presence, and had come to investigate; Scrat had barely run out after the ball twice when the back door opened and a hearty voice greeted them from up the path. 

"Quatre! This is at least the third time you've brought this young man here without offering to introduce him to us!" As Quatre turned toward the house, observing both his mother and his father approaching, the latter continued, "Is this the infamous Trowa Barton?" 

"'Infamous?'" Trowa echoed at a barely-audible murmur as he too turned. Quatre really should have warned him that Mr. Winner was likely to say something like this. He probably also should have mentioned that this confrontation was inevitable, and discussed options. But now there was no time to come up with answers to the questions that would undoubtedly be asked, and Quatre had no idea how this meeting was likely to go. 

"Yes," he said as his parents drew up to them at the edge of the lawn. "This is Trowa, my boyfriend. Trowa, these are my parents, Catharine and Bernard Winner." 

Gravely Trowa stepped forward to shake hands. "I'm very pleased to meet you both. Quatre talks about you quite a bit." 

"Oh-ho!" said Mr. Winner. "All good, I hope!" 

"He hasn't told _us_ anything about _you_, Trowa," Quatre's mother said, smiling warmly. "Do you live in town?" 

"He lives out east," Quatre put in. 

"In Lujoso? Or past the county line?" 

"Farther than that," Trowa answered with amusing honesty. "But I travel a lot." 

"What do you do, Trowa?" asked Mrs. Winner. 

"I'm a human resources consultant." This lie had the calmness of boring truth, and Quatre was impressed. It occurred to him that _of course_ Trowa was ready with something to say in situations like this; it had probably never been a lover's parents before, but this couldn't be the first time Trowa had needed to explain himself without mentioning magic -- and that just because he didn't like dealing with people didn't mean he was entirely incapable of it. 

Quatre was even more impressed when, upon his mother's remarking politely that that sounded interesting and his father's more blunt question about how this economy was treating independent contractors, Trowa responded with specifics about this hypothetical job of his that he must have determined upon at some earlier point. 

Actually, he seemed to have taken all his experiences doing magical favors to make people's lives easier and cast them into a business context so as to pass himself off as an expert on the improvement of employer-employee relationships and workplace convenience -- and he was so quietly convincing that even Quatre, who knew the truth, found himself almost believing it, and thinking that Trowa would probably make a very good human resources consultant in reality. If he didn't die. He wondered if Trowa planned on doing any kind of work after the curse was broken. If he wasn't dead. 

Fascinating as it was to watch Trowa thoroughly con Quatre's parents, the topic itself was rather dull -- as dull as anything spoken in Trowa's voice could hope to be, anyway -- and Quatre was certain that Trowa had chosen this particular fake profession so that people wouldn't be interested enough to ask too many questions. Even so, Quatre completely lost track of the dogs while listening to the conversation, little part though he took in it. 

"It can't be easy to convince employers there's a direct correlation between that and turnover," his father was saying. 

Trowa shook his head. "I always conduct a survey a year later, so I have a set of hard evidence." 

Mrs. Winner's interest in this discussion had by now (understandably) lagged, and, turning to Quatre in the next convenient pause, she asked, "Are you two having dinner here tonight?" 

Smiling appreciatively at this _let's-move-on_ question, Quatre answered, "No, we just came by to see the dogs, and then we're heading out again." 

"Well, Trowa--" and she turned back to him-- "you'll have to come to dinner sometime. We'd love to have you." 

Trowa nodded. "Thank you. I'd like that." 

"Yes!" Mr. Winner took his wife's hint and addressed his son. "Bring him by sometime and let him meet everyone." He shook Trowa's hand again. "It was excellent to meet you, sir. You two be good!" And, though he didn't wink or otherwise indicate any secondary meaning, Quatre felt his face heat somewhat. 

"I'm glad to have met you both," Trowa agreed politely, without reacting at all to the potentially embarrassing statement (perhaps without even _noticing_ the potentially embarrassing statement). 

"We'll see you later," said Mrs. Winner. "Have fun with the dogs." And with a smile she turned and drew her husband back toward the house. 

Once his parents were well inside and out of earshot, "That was amazing," Quatre commented. "You didn't miss a beat! You must have been expecting that." 

"Not specifically." Trowa bent to retrieve Scrat's ball, and threw it across the yard. "But I always have some answers ready, even if I'd rather not have to lie." He didn't seem entirely pleased about it -- as a matter of fact he looked fairly drained -- but he said it placidly enough. 

"But you must have known you'd meet my parents eventually, so it's good you had a plan." Just like he had a plan for his potential death seven nights from now. Only less depressing. 

"No," said Trowa, "I didn't think I was likely to meet your parents." 

Quatre hid his frown and bit back his _"Why not?"_ He didn't really want to hear Trowa explain that he'd speculated he would be dead before the opportunity to meet Quatre's parents arose. 

Trowa was gazing at him consideringly as Scrat brought the ball to Quatre. "You look like your mother," he noted. 

For the millionth time, Quatre tore his thoughts away from Trowa's possible impending death, and threw the ball again. He could talk about family resemblances; he would be _glad_ to talk about family resemblances. If it took his mind off what he didn't want, what he _never_ wanted to think about, he could talk about anything.


	128. Plastic Part 78

  


Traffic was unusually bad on Tuesday morning, and, even standing up out of his door and trying to peer past the other cars at one point when everyone had been at a standstill in the road for at least a minute, Heero couldn't tell why. "Probably an accident," he speculated when even Duo down in the passenger seat, who couldn't see the congestion, noted how much longer than usual the commute was taking. "Probably going the other direction," he added wryly, "and everyone's just slowing down to look." 

"Well, let _me_ look," Duo requested. 

Disregarding how it would appear to anyone that happened to have their eyes turned this direction, Heero lifted Duo up to window height and held him there as long as his second hand wasn't required for driving -- or what passed as driving in this stop-and-go. 

"Looks like a bunch of cars," remarked Duo, sounding disappointed. "I was... hoping... for..." He trailed off. 

"What, an accident?" 

"Just something interesting..." Duo's tone was quiet and somewhat odd, but Heero had to put him down at this point and couldn't really look at him. 

"What's wrong?" 

"Pick me up again," Duo ordered. "Like at the next light or whatever." 

Immensely curious, Heero did so, and, in response, Duo let out a long, wondering sigh. This was always an interesting action to observe, as it was purely aural: no actual air came from Duo's lips, nor did his chest rise or fall with the supposed breath. At the moment, however, it was less interesting in itself than in its cause. "What?" Heero demanded. 

"I can... feel... your hand..." Duo said, a slow grin growing on his little face. "I mean, there's still nothing -- it's not, like, tactile... but I can feel the temperature difference." When Heero had to set him down again, he went on in a more excited tone, "Yeah, your hand is definitely warmer than just sitting here. Come on, come on, pick me up again." 

As the traffic hadn't really sped up, Heero was soon able to comply, and to observe Duo's renewed grin. "Oh, god," the doll exulted, "this is so awesome! I can feel it! I can totally feel temperatures! Ha-_hah_!" After setting him down again, Heero could see, out of the corner of his eye, little plastic arms and legs waving in excitement. 

"It's working," Heero forced himself to say. "Six more days!" Mentally, though, he was reeling from the buzz he'd gotten hearing Duo talk about the warmth of his hand and being able to feel him; he knew Duo hadn't meant it that way, but he couldn't help considering it downright erotic. It didn't help that _Duo's_ hands, and the warmth and strength Heero imagined in them, were a constant feature in his fantasies. It was awfully early in the day and awfully far from the shower to be getting aroused by the thought of something he couldn't have, and he worried about this one in particular because he was sure Duo wasn't going to let it go. 

He was right. When they eventually reached their destination (it had been some kind of emergency road construction slowing the traffic), Duo proceeded to spend the entire workday demanding that Heero pick him up and put him down repeatedly. And, though the majority of his reaction consisted of, "Warm! ...cold! ...warm! ...cold!" -- which was too absurd to be arousing, though it was endearing -- there were comments here and there that more than made up for it: 

"Every time you put your hand on me, it surprises me all over again! I'm so not used to this anymore!" 

"I'd forgotten how _nice_ it is to be warm... not that the cold isn't fun, even if it's just for contrast, you know? Now, if only I could feel the texture too, it would be perfect." 

"I can feel it on specific areas, even! Like, I can tell where you're holding me. I could always tell before, but I couldn't _feel_ it. Now it's all warm in particular spots." 

Fortunately, Duo was too caught up in the interest and glee of the circumstance to notice the effect it was having on Heero, but a few of Heero's co-workers weren't so preoccupied. Among others, Dorothy raised one of her strange eyebrows at him when he answered only absently a question she asked; and (though it was difficult to tell) even Wufei seemed to be able to see, from the distance of his own private planet, that Heero was paying less attention to him than usual when he came around to find out if Heero had ever seen _The Wizard of Speed and Time_ and relay his own thoughts on it. 

The day's tribulations didn't end after work, either. Duo wanted to feel the heater and the air conditioner and see if he could detect temperature differences among the various rooms of Heero's home. Most of this was far less maddening than the earlier comments about Heero's warm hands on Duo's body, and Heero humored him in the majority of his requests -- but drew the line at holding him under hot and cold water. 

"You don't need a bath right now," he said with a laugh. 

"Well, do I get to take a shower with you tomorrow, then?" 

"No." 

"But I want to feel the hot water!" 

"You'll just have to wait until next week when you're human." Heero was really quite pleased with how placid his tone was in the face of the idea of showering with Duo. 

"Next week when I'm human," Duo sighed happily. "Can I use your shower then?" 

That definitely didn't help with the mental images, but Heero was again quite proud of himself when he managed, "Sure," without any trace of unsteadiness in his voice. 

"You gonna shower with me then?" wondered Duo next, slyly. And it was a good thing that such a jokingly flirtatious remark didn't really require an answer, because, after the type of day this had been, Heero didn't think there was any way he could have given one. 

It got worse when, as they settled down to read some Oz before bed, Duo demanded a seat in Heero's lap rather than on the end table. This was simultaneously exactly where Heero would like Duo, and probably the last place he should have him if this continued. Because if Duo made any comment about the warmth of Heero's _lap_, the temperature increase was unlikely to stop there. 

Heero couldn't at first think of a decent excuse not to comply with this request, since he had held Duo on his lap before. He couldn't bring himself to explain that, at this moment, having Duo there would make him feel like some kind of rapist, doll-form notwithstanding. What he eventually came up with -- and rather cleverly, he thought -- was, "No. I don't want to read if you're not going to be paying attention." 

"I'll pay attention!" Duo protested. 

"You can sit here," Heero allowed, placing him on the arm of the couch and curling a hand around him for stability. 

"Ahh," Duo said, which was almost as bad as anything else. "OK. But do I get to sleep in your bed tonight?" 

Heero felt himself flush, and wondered whether the heat would make its way down to his hand and Duo's attention. There had been days when he'd wondered how he was going to get through the lunar cycle... at the moment he was just wondering how he was going to get through today.


	129. Plastic Part 79

Quatre had once asked whether there were schools for magic, and sometimes Trowa thought their casual time together almost qualified as one. Quatre was charmingly eager to learn what he could about magic and how it worked, especially whenever Trowa cast some type of spell he hadn't seen before, or when an eager couple of magicians showed up at the door with a pie they just innocently thought Mr. Barton might like. 

"That's the disadvantage of having lived in this house for so long," he told Quatre in a sigh once he'd gotten rid of the followers without answering most of their questions. "Half of the magical community knows my address." 

"So how _did_ you find Denis Roblund's daughter?" Quatre asked in great interest, echoing one of the things the followers had wanted to know. 

Trowa shrugged. "I just jumped to her." 

"How? I mean, if she needed to be found, I assume nobody knew where she was..." 

"If you have a very specific knowledge of someone, you can use them as a destination." 

"And you had a very specific knowledge of Denis Roblund's daughter?" Quatre's tone and look expressed playful false jealousy. "Who was this, anyway?" 

"An eight-year-old girl. She was kidnapped. It was..." Trowa thought back. "1987. And it was her mother who had the very specific knowledge." 

"Oh, OK. So you just..." Quatre paused with a frown. "And this wouldn't have worked on Duo why?" 

"Because that very specific knowledge you need includes the physical, and he was in a completely new body. Don't think I didn't try, though." 

Quatre's frown lingered for several seconds, but finally he let it go and climbed onto Trowa's lap in the chair, as he often did at moments like this. "So the kidnapped kid... you locked onto her mom's mental picture of her like you do on a place I want to go?" 

"It's more difficult with an image of a person; people's images of other people tend to be far more... subjective... more prone to inaccuracy..." 

"OK. So what did you have to do?" 

It consistently pleased Trowa to find Quatre so fascinated by the topic he could most easily talk about, and so did the further queries Quatre used in trying to understand. Additionally, such discussions were good exercises in wording magical explanations comprehensibly, which was something Trowa would need to be able to do if he ever actually started writing the book he'd been contemplating. So he enjoyed these conversations very much, and not just because he held them with Quatre. 

This evening's culminated in his evicting Quatre from his lap so he would have the space to cast a spell as a demonstration of the principle he was elaborating upon. Gesturing wasn't technically necessary, as he clarified to the displaced Quatre, but it sometimes helped a great deal in maintaining concentration -- which _was_ necessary, especially for a communion spell. 

When he'd finished with the illustration, he found to his disappointment that Quatre did not intend to return to his lap; it was getting late. Quatre _did_ pull him forward by his shirt collar, however, and kiss him slowly. When he withdrew, he reiterated the opinion he had expressed before that Trowa still had a hard time believing: "It is so sexy when you do magic." With a grin he added teasingly, "I should have had that on my list of criteria for boyfriends years ago." 

"You'll have to add it for your next one." Trowa tried to match Quatre's teasing tone, but obviously some of the dismay he felt at thinking about Quatre's next boyfriend must have sounded in his voice, for Quatre's expression gradually turned grim. 

"You know," he murmured, looking up into Trowa's eyes, "I kept thinking it was just because you'd realized you might die soon..." Quatre shook his head. "But not all of this fits, and some of it started before that." 

"Some of what?" Trowa wondered warily. 

"You're just holding your breath waiting for this to end, aren't you?" 

Trowa frowned and said nothing. 

"You assume I won't care if you drop dead. You assumed you wouldn't ever meet my parents. You talk about my next boyfriend like it's something that's going to happen pretty soon. You always look at me like you're surprised I'm still around. You've never really thought this was going to last, have you?" 

Finally Trowa admitted, "No, I haven't. I'm just glad to be with you while you're here." 

Quatre took a deep breath. "So what is it you're thinking about me? That I have a short attention span? Or that I'm too spacy to have any idea what I want and I'll realize pretty soon here that it isn't you? Or do you think I'm just using you for sex and I'll get tired of it one of these days?" 

"No!" Trowa was horrified. "Of course I wasn't thinking anything like that." He hadn't even realized that what he was thinking might _imply_ any of that. "I just thought..." 

Closing his eyes, Quatre sighed. "You just thought I don't really know you, and the more I find out, the less I'm going to want to stay with you." 

It didn't sound like speculation. And since it was perfectly true, Trowa could return nothing but a heavy, "Yes." 

"I don't know what to do to convince you that you're really, honestly stuck with me. What is it you're..." Quatre raised both hands in some frustration and shook them beside his head. "Do you have some dark secret I don't have any idea about yet? Were you a Nazi or something?" 

"No! I... it's just..." Trowa knew Quatre wasn't going to like this, but there was no way around it. "Everything about me." 

"I thought it would probably come back to that." Quatre sighed again, and allowed his hands to fall and clasp Trowa's arms. "Let me tell you what I know about you so far. You are absolutely persistent and devoted; you're not the kind of person who abandons a friend even after _eighty-seven years_, no matter what you personally are going through. You are intelligent and skilled and knowledgeable, and you use that to help and teach other people, and only ask for tiny little things in return. You're blunt and clever, and you think fast on your feet; you're fun to be around. You're interested in talking about just about anything, and you make just about anything interesting to talk about. Not only that, but you're extremely attractive and fun to have sex with. Should I go on?" 

Trowa was definitely blushing, and he'd wanted to break in after every other word and deny it all. "I don't really think that's--" 

"I _know_ you don't. And it's driving me crazy. Why is it that you can believe the curse will be broken and everything will be fine, but you can't believe that I honestly like you?" 

"It took me eighty-seven years to believe the first one," Trowa reminded him, forcing a weak smile. 

"Trowa!" Quatre sounded simultaneously fond and very exasperated. "I'm twenty-four! I'm not going to live eighty-seven more years! I can't wait that long!" 

"I'm sorry," said Trowa, almost automatically. 

"I'm going to ask you for another favor." Quatre slid his arms back up Trowa's, and, as he had done on previous occasions, took Trowa's face in both of his hands. "I know I ask a lot of you, my poor Trowa," he said, half facetiously, "but I hope you can do this one more thing for me." 

"You haven't asked much of me." 

"Then you shouldn't mind doing this." 

"I'll certainly try, whatever it is." 

"Well, it's this: even if you can't see anything good about yourself -- _yet_ \-- can you please try to believe that _I **do**_ see it? That I'm not just arbitrarily with you because I have nothing better to do?" It was that same tone as before -- the one that was both reproving and pleading -- and Quatre's facial expression just about matched... only there was a touch of sadness that was almost despairing to it as well. 

In response to that look, the only thing for Trowa to say was, "All right." Unwilling to be dishonest, however, he did add, "I'll try." He took a deep breath and attempted again to smile. "It isn't as if it's an unpleasant thing to try to believe." 

Quatre murmured approvingly, "That's the attitude I want to see."


	130. Plastic Part 80

  


Heero had changed clothes and was just starting to think about dinner on Thursday evening when Quatre called. "Hey, Heero, I'm running some errands with Cairo in the car, and he's already getting a little carsick... I'm going to let him walk around outside your apartment for a bit. Do you happen to have a bowl you could fill with water and bring out for him?" 

"Sure. Are you already here?" 

"I'm a block away." 

"OK, I'll meet you down there." 

As Heero put his phone away Duo asked, "What's up?" 

"Quatre," Heero replied briefly. 

"Oh, is he actually going to pay attention to us today?" Duo grinned. 

"Only because his dog's getting carsick." Heero also grinned, though he wasn't entirely cheerful about the question and answer. 

Duo probably thought Quatre hadn't been around much lately because he was busy with work; Heero, on the other hand, was convinced that Quatre had a magic door of his own into Trowa's house, where he'd been spending most of his extraprofessional waking time (and probably, if Heero knew Quatre, much of his sleeping time as well). It wasn't a theory he wanted to relate to Duo, though. Unfortunately, it was a theory he _needed_ to relate to Duo, and undoubtedly couldn't. It fit with the fact that Quatre was currently running errands with his dog, too: he'd probably been neglecting the animal as well as his friends, and now was giving it the unusual treat of riding in the car with him as an apology. 

With a Tupperware bowl full of water held carefully in both hands and Duo in his jeans pocket, Heero headed down to the parking lot, having a little trouble managing doors but eventually making it without spilling too much. Outside, Quatre had already let the dog out of the car and was fussing with something in the back seat -- possibly simply adjusting the sheet he kept spread over it for Cairo to sit on, and possibly something less pleasant. 

Cairo was a calm, pretty creature that didn't think much of Heero; Quatre had assured him that Cairo was that way with everyone, and it didn't bother Heero greatly as he'd never really been a dog person anyway. Now Cairo didn't appear to mind him, however, as Heero set the water down on the sidewalk and called, for he came slowly over, sniffed at Heero's hand briefly, and began to drink. Heero, not terribly fond of the smell of vomit and speculating it might be part of what Quatre was dealing with over there, sat down on the curb a couple of parking spaces away and set Duo beside him. 

"He looks OK," he said loudly enough for Quatre to hear him. In response, Quatre made a sardonic noise. Heero smirked. "How's that other one? The hyper one?" 

"How many dogs does he have?" Duo wondered. 

"She's fine," Quatre replied at volume. "I had to have Darryl come out and distract her so I could get Cairo into the car without making her sad." 

"Hoooowwww many dogs?" Duo reiterated. 

"You know, if Scrat didn't have Cairo for company and such a big yard to run around in, I'd say we should get rid of her... Cameron _never_ pays attention to her." The guilt in Quatre's tone told Heero he'd been right in speculating recent neglect of Cairo; the nephew's offense must be pretty severe if Quatre was still mentioning it in the face of his own. 

"Just two dogs?" Duo guessed. "And who's Cameron?" 

"Sorry... Quatre's oldest nephew," answered Heero. "And, yes, two dogs." 

"Well, this one is a mighty fiiine-lookin' animal," Duo drawled. 

Heero laughed a little. 

"What was that?" Quatre called. 

"My voice is too goddamn quiet!" Duo yelled. 

It seemed Quatre still didn't hear him, so Heero replied, "Nothing." 

Duo sighed and turned his attention to Cairo, who was now sniffing about. 

"Four more days," Heero murmured reassuringly. With his little plastic hands, Duo patted appreciatively at the one of Heero's that was half curled around him where he sat on the concrete; it was a strange sensation. 

Meanwhile Quatre was saying, "I still need to go to Carquest and a grocery store; do you guys want to come with me?" 

Heero had a secret love of auto parts stores, but was being perfectly honest when he replied, "Not in a car that smells like dog vomit." 

"We could take your car," was Quatre's teasing suggestion. 

"_That_ animal in _my_ nice car?" 

"Oh," said Quatre in mock surprise, "did you get a nice car?" 

Duo had been talking nonsense at the dog, to which Heero had been half listening in amusement as he held this distance conversation with Quatre; now, all at once, Duo's tone changed, and his random noises abruptly became a good deal more intelligible: "Whoah! Hey! Hey, stop! Bad dog!" And at the same moment, Heero felt Cairo's warm, wet, snuffling nose against the hand he'd had on Duo's body. 

It happened with dizzying quickness. At the sound of Duo's supplicating but somewhat muffled, "Heero!" the latter looked down in time to see Cairo take the doll by the head, pick him right up, and start to turn away. Heero made a grab for Duo, but missed entirely as Cairo began trotting toward Quatre. 

"Hey!" cried Heero in his turn, diving after the dog, missing again, and scrambling to his feet. He never actually did manage to get his hands on Duo, and it was a startled and confused Quatre that pulled the doll from Cairo's mouth. 

"What..." Quatre began. 

Heero snatched Duo in a panic and began looking him over for damage, despite knowing that he was supposedly indestructible. As he did this, Duo was swearing continually, and only stopped when Heero's eyes met his. Breathlessly he asked, "How far was that?" 

"I don't know," replied Heero, his panic settling into horror. "I couldn't-- Quatre, did you see?" 

Quatre's eyes had gone wide as he'd realized what had just happened, and he shook his head. Then they all simply gazed at each other blankly. Cairo leaned complacently against his master, unaware that he'd caused any trouble. 

"Shit," Duo said again at last, sounding distraught. 

"It may not have been too far," said Heero quickly. However, as even he wasn't sure how far the dog had gone before he'd caught up, his tone was none too certain. 

Duo just stared up at him, painted eyes wide. 

Heero held him tighter. "I'm sure it's all right," he said, though he wasn't. "I'm sure I got to you in time." Though he wasn't. 

"I'm so sorry," Quatre breathed, one hand on the dog's head rubbing almost absently at its ears. "I don't know why he did that. Maybe... maybe he thought... I don't know..." 

Duo took what sounded like a deep breath and spoke in that disconcerting tone of false cheer Heero had heard from him a few times before: "I've never known what it is about me that dogs like so damn much. They're pretty common familiar animals... maybe they sense the magic or something." 

"I guess we'll find out on Monday." Quatre clearly wasn't referring to why dogs liked Duo so much. There was a distant, contemplative quality to his voice, which Heero attributed to his suddenly thinking of Trowa and how this might affect him. 

Perhaps Duo was on the same wavelength, for he said, "Don't anyone mention this to Trowa, OK? He shouldn't have to worry about it before he has to. Especially if it turns out he doesn't have to worry about it at all." 

Slowly Quatre nodded, though he didn't look entirely convinced. 

Heero also wasn't sure what to think. If _he_ were the one under a curse and approaching what he believed to be the end of a long period of suffering, he would want to have clear expectations about the day in question, know whether or not he could anticipate success. On the other hand, Trowa didn't seem the type to get his hopes up -- about anything, really -- and Heero didn't feel it was his place to make the decision when Duo and Quatre were both more familiar with Trowa and more concerned for his well-being. So finally he nodded too. Then they all just stared at each other again, bleak and pensive. 

When somebody showed signs of wanting to pull into the parking space they were occupying, Quatre finally stirred. "I've got to go," he said reluctantly, looking around as if he'd forgotten where he was. "I am so sorry about this." Seeing his human moving again, Cairo climbed up through the car's open back door without being urged. 

Duo shook his head, dragging his somewhat slobbery braid back and forth across Heero's hand. "Not your fault," he said. "It's not exactly something you can train your dog not to do." 

Quatre smiled weakly at Duo, then raised his eyes to Heero. There was in his face that thoughtful expression that suggested he wasn't saying something he had on his mind. Heero remembered him wearing that look a few days before the email about Trowa; he wondered what Quatre was thinking now, and whether he wasn't saying it because Duo was present or for some other reason. What Quatre did say eventually was, "Thanks for the water." 

Heero nodded. Their goodbyes were subdued, and then he stood on the curb holding Duo in both hands and watching Quatre drive away. 

Duo was very quiet as they returned inside, even once the door was closed and they were alone and out of anyone's earshot. Heero hadn't put him back in his pocket, but continued to keep both hands possessively on him as he walked with the bowl under his arm dripping down his side, and now he gazed at the doll in similar silence. 

Finally Duo said, "If that just ruined everything..." 

"Then we start over," Heero interrupted tensely. "We start a new month and try again. We try harder." 

"But--" 

Heero would not even hear the beginning of an objection. "We _start over_," he reiterated. 

For a long moment Duo stared at him, his eyes blinking away in their uncannily regular rhythm. And eventually he said, as quietly as before, "Thank you." 

Not trusting himself to answer verbally, Heero nodded. 

"And now," Duo announced next, clearly changing the subject, "I think I really _do_ need a bath." 

Heero forced a smile. "Yes, I think so too." 

"So bring on the hot water! That'll be my silver lining." 

Smile widening somewhat, if a little sadly, Heero hoped it could be his as well.


	131. The New Familiar

  


Of course by the very nature of the circumstances he couldn't be certain, but Cairo didn't think he'd done nearly as much _thinking_ during the entire length of his life prior to some recent point. All his memories before that point -- and it was hazy exactly when or what that point _was_ \-- were unfocused and far more a series of ideas than specific recollections of events. He knew he'd always had a human companion, but had he always recognized that that companion had a name just as he did? He knew other humans had always been around, but had he always been aware of the precise relationships among them? He knew he'd had friends in the form of other dogs, but, while there had always been a certain pack hierarchy that had come naturally to them, had he always been conscious of _exactly_ who and what they were to him, or to the humans they all interacted with? 

He knew now that his particular human, called 'Quatre' (a name, not merely a common sound), was still fairly young in human terms and loved Cairo in spite of being busy with many human things. He knew now the degree of relationship to Quatre of many of the humans around him -- Bernard and Catharine were Quatre's father and mother, for instance -- though there were still some pack dynamics he had yet to fathom, such as where exactly Darryl fit into the scheme of things. And he knew his friend Scrat was very young and a relatively recent addition to the home, though why she was never his mate (and why this didn't seem to bother either of them) he wasn't clear on. 

And then there was Trowa. Trowa seemed to be an even more recent addition than Scrat to Cairo's sphere of experience, but, once again, Cairo couldn't be exactly sure of time frames before that mysterious point when he'd started thinking. Even now he didn't do much tracking of the passage of time, but felt he _could_ if he wanted to. He knew about days' beginnings and endings, and he could count, and determine how long it had been since such-and-such if he were inclined to pay attention. In any case, he wasn't certain how long Trowa had been around, but he _was_ certain it hadn't been very long. 

Trowa was interesting, though. Quatre kept him around as his mate, and quite a bit of time -- tracked or otherwise -- could probably be spent puzzling over this. Quatre and Trowa were both distinctly male, and yet, Cairo had come to recognize during the meetings he'd had with the newcomer, just as distinctly mates. It was an exercise in this thinking business looking at that relationship from all angles and trying to determine the reasons for it, and he'd had little success thus far. Though he thought he remembered, with the vagueness of all pre-thinking memories, particularly liking the smell and shape of some male dog or other in the past, still the idea of taking another male for a mate seemed strange. Perhaps it was a human thing that would remain forever beyond him. 

Trowa was interesting, too, because there was something about him that Cairo had felt about no previous acquaintance. It was nothing he detected with any of the senses he'd always been familiar with -- not a scent or a visual or a sound... he couldn't quite describe to himself what it was, but it fascinated him. Every time Trowa was around, Cairo found himself drawn to him in further attempts at defining -- and also the mere desire to experience -- this odd sense. 

Trowa was kind to him, but did not exactly seem invested. He would play tug-of-war with the rope willingly enough, and gave out pets whenever Cairo came near, but was obviously far more engrossed in whatever Quatre did. That was only to be expected, given the obvious bond between the two humans and the fact that Quatre was pretty clearly alpha; but it also confused him that the unexplained sense about Trowa could exert so much pull when Trowa obviously wasn't deliberately attempting influence or dominance with it, when his thoughts weren't even fully on Cairo at any given moment. 

Quatre too had been less invested than usual in interacting with Cairo lately. At least, Cairo thought it was less than usual -- he _believed_ Quatre had been more attentive to him in the past, but that same barrier to specific memory was still in place. In any case, he put together, over the days of watching and thinking more, an impression of distraction on Quatre's part based (he theorized) on the new interchange with Trowa. Trowa certainly did not threaten to _replace_ Cairo, as there was a world of difference between the type of relationship each had with Quatre, but he _did_ take up a lot of Quatre's time and energy that could otherwise have been spent on the dog. 

Cairo was saddened by this. Again, it seemed logical -- a mate must always be distracting -- but to a creature that enjoyed spending time with and having the attention of a beloved companion, it felt tragic to have lost so much of that companion's notice. 

Today was a happy day, however. Quatre had evidently recognized Cairo's forlornness, and that recognition was the reason for this car trip. Cairo enjoyed riding in the car -- though not, evidently, as much as did the frantic Scrat -- and considered the experience more than sufficient apology for recent neglect. Quatre made cheerful human noises to him as they went along, and Cairo looked out the window and saw all the incomprehensible things, and it didn't much matter that he was beginning to feel a little sick -- today was a happy day. 

He'd partially emptied his stomach, which felt a bit better in consequence, by the time Quatre let him out of the car, but he was still salivating a great deal, and thus was pleased to see one of Quatre's human friends nearby with a bowl of water for him. This friend must have a name -- almost everybody did, Cairo was learning -- but he couldn't remember it; he was fairly sure he hadn't encountered this one since the thinking had begun. He appreciated the water regardless. 

As Quatre and his friend vocalized at each other and Cairo finished his drink, the dog's interest suddenly piqued at an unexpected touch of the familiar. At first he couldn't be certain he was really detecting something present and not remembering something past -- did memory work that way? -- but after a short while he was convinced he really did sense it: that same strange feeling he always had about Trowa. But Trowa was not present. Where did it come from? 

Since sniffing around was essentially the only way he knew to search out any phenomenon and made him feel as if he was accomplishing something, he set to, though well aware it was not a smell he sought. Just the seeking movement involved must be productive; he became sure of this when he was successfully able to track the sense over to the immediate vicinity of Quatre's friend. Was it the friend himself? The humans were still largely ignoring him while making loud noises at each other -- they were some distance apart -- so he continued his investigation. 

There it was: an object held loosely in the hand of Quatre's friend, making, like many objects, its own noises similar to the human sounds. And it definitely felt the way Trowa did. That strange sense was unmistakable, and just as compelling as when Trowa exuded it. Cairo went right up to the thing for closer examination. 

It seemed to imitate the humans' noises very well: though it was quieter, Cairo's ears could detect no other significant difference. Perhaps, then, it only imitated that other sense too? Human objects were often remarkable that way. 

Still, did Quatre know about this? Was he aware that a sense identical to his mate's, whether genuine or imitation, hung about an item seemingly in the possession of his friend? Cairo wasn't certain Quatre knew about the sense in the first place, but the similarity seemed worth noting even so. This might be something important, something he would want to attend to. What was the use of Cairo being able to think if he couldn't make decisions that would help his dear companion? He would have to show him.


	132. Plastic Part 81

Quatre had never been the type to take issue with a repetitive routine. He didn't mind going to work every single day at the same time through the same traffic and doing things that varied very little from one month to the next, and he almost never thought, _I need a vacation_. Saturdays and Sundays were enough for him to relax on, and he was careful to accept only the social invitations that would still allow him time to do so. He'd been the same way during college, and the attitude had always alternately annoyed and impressed his friends and acquaintances. Heero called him a workaholic, at which Quatre just laughed (sometimes somewhat abashedly, depending on how many hours he'd been at the office that day). 

But lately he'd caught himself thinking, upon awakening, _I have to go to work **again**?_ It was taking an increasing amount of effort to stay concentrated on what he needed to get done every day, and he had significantly less patience with everything that didn't involve going home and seeing Trowa. Quatre couldn't decide whether this was because he'd never encountered a set of circumstances so interesting as the curse and its victims... or because his relationship with Trowa was more meaningful and engrossing than he'd realized. Or possibly just because of the death thing. 

He remembered what his father had said, of course, and tried his hardest not to let this affect his effectiveness; he thought he did well, and that, even if his co-workers recognized that he was not quite himself lately, nobody except perhaps Heero was aware of the amount of impatience and tension coming gradually to a boil inside him. 

That Friday had finally arrived he was incredibly grateful. Only the weekend and one more day of work remained before the night when the curse would supposedly break. But that was another thing... As if he hadn't already had enough to think about, now there was the issue of whether or not anything would even happen at all on Monday evening. Of course if the curse didn't break on Monday evening, Trowa certainly would not die on Monday evening, which was a relief... but what other effects would that have on the curse victims? Could either of them handle getting so close and then being let down? Would they be willing to try again? 

He also still couldn't decide if Duo was right about leaving Trowa in the dark. If Cairo's little trick turned out not to have affected the curse-breaking process, Trowa's awareness of it would be an entirely unnecessary source of worry for him. And if it _had_ messed things up, was there anything Trowa could do? Surely the burden would still be on Heero's shoulders, so would it matter if Trowa found out on Monday rather than today? 

But Trowa seemed to believe so firmly now that the curse _would_ break -- the catalog on his study table was an ongoing testament to that -- the only remaining uncertainty the question of his own fate once it did... Was that a belief in the curse breaking _on Monday_, or the curse breaking _at some point_? If Monday, then surely it would be better to warn him, guard against any false optimism... or would that shatter his belief entirely, return him to the despondency of before, all the worse now after that brief taste of hope? 

Quatre just didn't know. If it had been entirely up to him, he would have taken a chance on honesty and openness... but since he _was_ so uncertain, and since Duo had made the request for silence, he was holding his peace at least for now. 

It wasn't as if it was the only matter of import he was keeping quiet about. 

"I still think Duo needs to know," he was telling Trowa; they had been debating across their lunch/dinner. 

Trowa pursed his lips. "I don't want to make him unhappy about something that's unlikely to happen." 

Though the words 'unlikely to happen' in relation to Trowa's upcoming death were music to Quatre's ears, he wasn't sure he agreed with Trowa's point; and the thought process was all too similar to what Quatre had been going through all day in regards to the _other_ secret. 

"He's your best friend." If Heero's theory was right, Duo might very well consider himself something more than that. "He may not be able to do anything about it, but he at least needs the chance to say goodbye." 

"But I don't think it's very likely that we'll need a goodbye." 

"And that's _wonderful_," said Quatre vehemently. "But just in case, since you still think there is that chance, he needs to be told." 

"He's looking forward so much to being human again..." Trowa was gazing at his food as if it was very interesting, which seemed to Quatre, at the moment, somewhat evasive. "I don't want to spoil his happiness." 

"You don't think having his best friend unexpectedly die the instant he's human again will spoil his happiness?" 

Trowa's uncertain frown had slowly transformed into that pensive, repressive expression that suggested he had arguments he was reluctant to voice; he probably had some other, totally different reason for not wanting to tell Duo, and Quatre couldn't even begin to guess what it was. 

"Will you at least tell him on Monday?" Quatre asked, a little impatiently. It drove him crazy when Trowa did this. 

"Quatre..." Trowa's low tone was serious and sad. "If you were in a bad situation, and you learned that the only way out of it might kill your best friend, what would _you_ do?" 

There were further points Quatre had wanted to make, but at these words he was stunned and momentarily speechless. How he had never come to look at it from that angle he didn't know, but now that he did... 

What _would_ he do? No experience in his life, he felt, was analogous to being a doll for eighty-seven years, so here was another of those circumstances where he didn't know if his imagination was up to the task. But of course at the phrase 'best friend' his thoughts flew instantly to Heero, who had held that position for a decade, whom he wasn't at all averse to admitting that he loved... the thought of seriously endangering Heero for any advantage of his own didn't sit right, no matter what suffering was involved on his part. 

Would Duo risk the life of someone _he_ loved for his humanity? Or would he refuse... throw away the month's progress and continue in his current form for Trowa's sake, even if no one -- including himself or Trowa -- wanted him to? And what would Heero think of that? 

"It's my sacrifice," Trowa said. "It should be my choice, I think." 

But didn't Duo deserve some choice too? What if he didn't _want_ Trowa to take such a risk for him? Whose right was it to make this type of decision? In such moments, it was not unusual for a man to fall back on his primitive training... but no teaching Quatre could remember from the whole course of his life indicated how such a situation should be handled. All he was certain of was that he didn't want Trowa to die, and that Duo would certainly feel the same. Who needed to know what when was rather beyond him at this point. 

"I guess it is up to you," he said softly at last. "I just hope you're right." 

"So do I," said Trowa.


	133. Plastic Part 82

  


Duo was laughing again. 

"Stop that," Heero ordered, accelerating more than he needed to and consequently taking a fairly sharp turn at a greater speed than was strictly wise. 

"I really can't." In testament to this, Duo was still chuckling as he said it. "Just... the look on your face... If he'd been able to see it, he'd have probably taken back the invitation right then." 

"You must know him better than that by now," sighed Heero. "He doesn't take hints." 

"Yeah, I know. But it was still heeee-larious." 

"You've heard every single conversation I've had with him since he started being so friendly," Heero went on in some frustration as he pulled into his own lot. "Have I given any indication at all that I'd like to hang out with him outside of work?" 

"I'm not really sure you're _capable_ of giving that type of indication," Duo said, his tone all of a sudden very solemn -- though it was the solemnity of a joke at Heero's expense. "In fact, I might just have a heart attack if you did." 

Heero had his revenge by pointing out, "You don't have a heart." 

"Oh, yeah," said Duo jovially. "Damn." 

"But seriously..." Finding that his usual spot was taken (again) by next door's boyfriend (Heero considered it a tragedy that the truck was that familiar), he pulled into a farther parking place. "Have I given him false signals or something? Why would he invite me to anything?" 

"He's trying to get into your pants," said Duo wisely as Heero lifted him out of the car along with his briefcase. "I mean, who wouldn't? It's nice in there." 

Heero didn't reply, as they were passing another apartment-dweller that was already giving him an odd look at the sight of the doll in his hand. And once he'd entered the empty stairwell on the way up to the second floor, Duo spoke again: 

"Honestly, though, I think the poor guy's just lonely. He feels like he's made a connection with you, so that's all he's going to see for a while. You could be ten times more anti-social and he'd still probably act the same." Hastily he added, "I know, I know, you're not anti-social. Hell, compared to that guy, you've probably got the best social life _ever_." 

Heero smiled wryly as he unlocked his apartment door. "OK," he said. "Thanks." 

Wufei had invited Heero to accompany him to the unveiling of some new collection of figures from some show or other, and the current relatively rational discussion of the circumstance had only arisen after the incapacitating bulk of Duo's laughter had passed. Now that they were home, however, the subject was dropped in favor of Duo's usual flirtatious remarks as Heero changed clothing, Duo's usual grumbling about his inability to eat as Heero found dinner, and eventually Oz. But it came up again later as Heero was getting ready for bed. 

"I can't believe that guy asked you out," Duo was chortling after a long silence during which his mind had obviously returned in some amusement to this topic. 

"He didn't 'ask me out.'" Heero was glad he was in the closet where his blush couldn't be seen. 

"Yes, he did! Looking at action figures together? That's totally a nerd date!" 

"He's straight," Heero said flatly. 

"He _thinks_ he is," said Duo in a tone of correction. "I am going to have so much fun with him when I'm human again..." 

"You're going to try to prove he's gay?" 

"Well, that, and, like, put Silly String all over his car." 

Heero emerged from the closet at this point and began looking for a different shirt to wear to bed, since he deemed that last night's had passed its between-wash limit. Duo whistled at his bare chest and started saying teasy flirty things, and this derailed the conversation again. 

Once he was in bed, Heero found his mind drifting to the oft-contemplated idea of Duo as a human and what he would do at that point; and he had to admit that he really liked the idea of Duo messing with Wufei on a regular basis. Only (hopefully) three more days... 

And it occurred to him all at once, somewhat idly -- a clown of a thought -- to wonder what would happen if he were to discover on Monday night that it _had_ all been a hoax this entire time. After all, though he'd seen proof that magic existed, what he'd seen didn't actually prove that most of what Duo and Trowa had said was true. What if it was all an elaborate prank? 

The thought was too absurd for any reaction but laughter -- out loud, even -- which seemed to be the theme of the day, and Duo couldn't but hear him. "What are you laughing about all by yourself in bed there?" he demanded. 

"I'm not all by myself." Heero rose onto an elbow and turned toward Duo on the nightstand. "You're here." 

"Yeah, but I'm not in bed with you," Duo said coyly. 

"In one sense you are... you're in bed, I'm in bed, we're in the same room..." 

"OK, OK, OK." In the darkness, Duo's little waving arm was barely visible. "But what were you laughing about?" 

"I'll tell you," said Heero slowly, "but you have to understand that it was just a stupid thought... nothing serious... I definitely know by now that you're a real person..." 

"Whoa!" Duo laughed. "Now I'm _really_ curious!" 

So Heero told him. He'd been a little worried that Duo might be unhappy at such an idea's even having occurred to him, but it turned out Duo was only amused at the hypothetical situation Heero proposed. The question of why anyone would want to trick someone else into carrying a doll around with him for a month was the subject's primary source of amusement for him, and he started speculating enthusiastically. 

And though the 'anyone' in this case was, of course, Trowa, Heero couldn't be jealous -- or anything but amused, really -- at Duo talking about him continually, due to the wildness of the various theories Duo put forth as to why Trowa might act that way. In fact, Heero couldn't help voicing a few of his own, or occasionally just building on Duo's. And it wasn't the first time they'd lain there talking and laughing in the dark, like kids at a sleepover, far longer into the night than one of them at least should have been awake.


	134. Plastic Part 83

  


Quatre forced himself to play with the dogs for a bit on Sunday morning before, pleased with his self-discipline, he headed over to Trowa's house. There, after a long discussion about books, he chose one of the few Trowa owned that wasn't in the unreadable magical language, and sat back in Trowa's computer chair (dragged into the study for the day) to read it. 

Trowa was once again making notes for his own hypothetical book, and it was pleasant to be able to look up and see him working placidly throughout the morning. Additionally, today Trowa finally noticed, for the first time, that his tea was a different flavor than what he'd been buying for decades, and Quatre got to tease him about that. 

For lunch they had fajita steak and rice, which Trowa seemed to enjoy -- but he seemed to enjoy it even more when, after they were done eating, they somehow (Quatre really had no idea how it came about) ended up making love in the living room. Then they finished clearing up after lunch, which process had been interrupted by the previous activity, and attempted to return to what they'd been doing earlier. 

They found, however, that the fond looks they kept throwing each other for the rest of the afternoon rendered them absolutely useless at their respective pursuits. Finally Quatre set aside the book he'd been trying to read -- it _was_ interesting, just... not as interesting as Trowa -- and went to join his boyfriend in the armchair. 

It was remarkable how quickly hours could fly during the course of a conversation that was one third intelligent and productive, one third flirty and stupid, and one third kissing. Of course there was also an extraneous fraction in there somewhere comprised of the dark thoughts Quatre could not entirely banish about Trowa's possible death, and, since Thursday, the possibility that the curse might not actually break tomorrow -- but despite this, the time passed relatively swiftly and smoothly. And even once it was over, Quatre could still look back on it and work through it all again in his mind, if not with exactly as much pleasure as when actually taking part in it, at least with more than he took from anything else that didn't involve Trowa. 

But eventually, aware that he needed to leave yet reluctant to do so, Quatre slid out of the chair, standing straight and stretching slowly. "Well, tomorrow's the big day..." 

"Yes." Trowa also stood behind him, and ran a hand up Quatre's back to settle between his shoulder blades. He still moved somewhat hesitantly making gestures like that, but he was getting better. 

Leaning against him, Quatre sighed, mostly in contentment. "I can't _wait_ to see you un-cursed," he said. He couldn't help adding mentally, _Assuming the curse actually breaks, and you don't die._ Damn secrets. 

"I'm looking forward to it myself," Trowa understated. 

Quatre's backwards-seeking hands found Trowa's arms and guided them around him, consequently pulling Trowa closer. "Are you nervous at all?" 

"Yes," Trowa said simply. "I never asked to be immortal, but I've gotten used to it... I'll have to get used to mortality all over again." 

_In one way or another_, Quatre thought a little despondently. He noted, at the same time, that Trowa had expressed no nervousness about the curse's actual end; it seemed he really did have faith that it would break tomorrow. Quatre said nothing about this, however. "I'm glad you'll be mortal again," he replied instead. "I'd hate to keep getting older and older while you stayed the same." 

"I'll always be older than you, though." Trowa's tone was so serious, it was a few moments before Quatre recognized that he was teasing. _Trowa_ was _teasing_ him. Unprovoked! 

It was difficult to keep his voice level after that realization. "But you always being older than me doesn't mean very much." He started walking, not really with a destination in mind but enjoying dragging Trowa along behind him. "I mean, I'll always be older than Heero, but so what?" 

"I'll always be _a lot_ older than you," Trowa amended. 

Quatre's grin was now definitely sounding in his words. "That depends on how you're keeping score! You were born when, 1898? And the curse started in 1923?" He laughed. "Actually that's probably still older than me. When's your birthday?" 

Trowa had to think for a moment. "August twenty-second." 

"So that would make you about twenty-four and a half, right?" 

"'Twenty-four and a half...'" Trowa murmured. "It's been a long time since I thought of myself like that." 

Quatre chuckled. "Well, mine's in December, and I'll be twenty-five then." 

"So I'm still older than you." Trowa bent to kiss Quatre's neck from behind. 

Several minutes passed before Quatre made any further move to depart, and even then it was only at the sound of the clock; and after he'd been so responsibly keeping track of the time on his own, too! "I need to get home to bed," he sighed. 

He had already turned away when Trowa said hesitantly, "I wish... I wish you could stay. I know you have to work in the morning, but--" But he got no further than that, as his mouth was suddenly otherwise occupied. 

Maybe Quatre had been unreasonable in wanting to hear voiced this particular desire; maybe he'd been asking Trowa to read his mind (something he knew now, since he'd inquired, that Trowa could not, in fact, do). And maybe it was silly to have essentially been wishing for Trowa to behave selfishly -- to ask Quatre to stay even when he knew Quatre needed to leave -- but somehow the lack of that request on all previous occasions had made Quatre feel as if his company was something to be enjoyed but never actively sought. 

Someday, provided Trowa was still around, Quatre would explain to him that the real issue was not _where_ he slept but _how much_ (and thus the important question was what aspects of his sleeping arrangements might keep him awake); but at the moment he didn't give a damn whether or not he was up all night -- because _Trowa wanted him to stay_. 

Eventually he drew back, releasing Trowa's lips from the passionate kiss with which he'd enveloped them, and looked his somewhat baffled lover in the eye. "I'll stay as long as you want," he whispered. 

Trowa looked pleased but a little confused. "Don't you have to be at work in the morning?" 

"Yes. But right now I have to be here." And, taking Trowa's hand, Quatre pulled him toward the bedroom.


	135. Plastic Part 84

"We should have gotten today off too," Heero murmured as he set Duo down on his desk and tried to decide whether it was yet warm enough in here to take off his jacket. 

Duo didn't answer. Instead, a voice behind Heero said, "And why is that?" He turned to face Dorothy, not having realized she'd followed him into his cubicle. As usual, she looked simultaneously amused and accusatory. "You guys have taken a lot of time off lately. It must be nice to be a Winner's best friend." 

"Yes," Heero replied calmly, "it is." He didn't answer her question. 

She didn't repeat it. Dorothy was very good at picking her battles. "Medford's systems are down," she informed him instead. "You probably have fifty emails waiting already. Send anything my way you think I can handle." 

In some consternation, Heero turned back toward his computer and began logging on from his standing position. "Thanks," he told Dorothy abstractedly. 

On any other day he would have grumbled a bit about the greater and more complicated workload, but today it was exactly what he needed to keep him occupied and distracted. Which did not by any stretch of the imagination mean that he didn't think about the doll on the desk beside him or the man that doll would hopefully become tonight -- but at least he managed to keep that to every other thought. 

Mid-morning he received an email from Quatre: _I'm going to **have** to fly out to Medford tomorrow. I am so frustrated._

_I'm sorry_, Heero wrote back. He felt his friend's pain, but couldn't help being secretly glad that it was Quatre's and not his own. _Maybe have Trowa magic you out there tonight after everything's over, and stay in a hotel?_

Quatre's answer read, _That's a good idea, but he can't jump there if he can't get a clear mental picture of it, and I haven't been there often enough for that._

_Maybe **he** has, though._

_Maybe_. Heero could almost _hear_ the sigh in this single-word response. He shook his head. 

As usual, bored with the monotony of a workday he wasn't technically part of, Duo jumped eagerly on the movement. Figuratively speaking. "What's up now?" 

Heero explained. 

"It is so nice that you guys took the day off in the first place," Duo said sincerely in response. "I mean, for you it already makes sense, since you'll definitely need a day off after this last month of hell... but it's just a really nice gesture from Quatre." 

This was a perfect opening for Heero to explain that Quatre also had a specific interest in this beyond politeness or even friendship... but, as usual, he couldn't find the words. Not when Duo was looking forward so happily to becoming human _tonight_. So he merely nodded slowly, as if continually distracted by his email -- though in reality his eyes were locked there solely because he couldn't bring himself to turn them toward Duo at that moment. 

At lunch time, Heero was distressed to find that it was only lunch time. He felt like he'd already been here a whole day plus overtime, but was, in fact, barely halfway done. His mood wasn't improved by the awareness that he was unlikely to be able to avoid _some_ overtime, given that he was _absolutely not_ coming in tomorrow and therefore needed to make sure everything was set up to go smoothly without him even if they were still supporting Medford. This would put something of a burden on Dorothy, and, though he rather hated to admit it, Heero would owe her one. But he still wasn't coming in tomorrow. 

"So here's our last lunch in this random parking lot," Duo commented; Heero, pulling into the area in question, had to remind himself rather firmly that the pleasure in the doll's tone probably had more to do with his desire to become human again than his disliking of spending lunchtimes with Heero in a random parking lot. When Heero just nodded, Duo went on, "And your last day having to explain me if anyone asks." 

Unfastening his seat belt and rolling down his window, Heero nodded again. 

"You know, though," Duo mused on, "I don't think I ever heard you give a real excuse for having me there anyway. So it's not like me not being there is going to change much." 

Heero thought it would actually change quite a lot about his job not having Duo there. As tiresome as being the in-house entertainment had been for the first few weeks, once that had died down he'd never felt anything but satisfaction at having Duo with him all day. The ability to turn to him and strike up a conversation about anything at any point (depending on who else was around, of course) easily allayed all of the little frustrations many of Heero's co-workers often caused. He was going to miss him more than he could say. 

He didn't attempt to say _any_ of this, however. Instead he just admitted, "I never did think of an excuse that didn't sound completely stupid." 

"You know what you should have said? You should have said you had to take me to work for a whole month because you lost a bet. With Quatre, maybe. I bet he would have played along and everything." 

Heero turned to stare at him, surprised and perhaps a little annoyed. "You could have made that suggestion a month ago." 

"I would have," Duo said sheepishly, "if I'd thought of it any time before just now." 

With a smile of defeat, Heero shook his head. "Well, it's almost over, so we can just let everyone keep wondering." 

"_Hopefully_ it's almost over," Duo muttered. 

Heero nodded. He'd been trying to avoid thinking about the dog thing, but it was impossible not to taste occasionally the undercurrent of doubt that event had set in motion. Because the awareness was always there, beneath everything else, that even after so much toil and pleasant looking forward, it was still possible that nothing would happen tonight. 

Of course there was another possibility they had not discussed at all -- that the curse would end while Heero was still at work, and there Duo would be unexpectedly, a stranger in the midst of business and everyone, and Heero really _would_ have to come up with an excuse this time. This particular possibility, however, far from being discouraging and worthy of avoidance like the other, struck Heero as rather amusing -- which was fortunate, as he had need of amusement for the rest of that day. 

He tried not to watch the clock, since he already knew he wasn't going to leave until everything he needed to get done got done and everything was ready for his absence tomorrow -- rather than the swift departure maybe a couple of minutes shy of five on which he'd originally planned -- but even before Duo started asking him approximately every six and a half minutes what time it was, he marked the coming and going of 2:07, 2:20, 2:39, 2:42, and 2:56. Then the three o'clock hour passed in agony, and Heero couldn't even bring himself to berate Duo for his constant demands, as his own eyes were on the computer clock more often than not anyway. 

There was a tension steadily growing in the air that would not be dispelled by any words -- even words that weren't about how many minutes had passed since the last words. Heero thought that, at least on his side, words _un_said played some part in this. He should have told him by now; he should have told him long before this. And yet he just kept at his work in restless impatience and uncertainty, and the tension grew. He thought even Dorothy sensed it, when she came to consult with him about something... though it was nothing unusual to receive an odd look from Dorothy, especially these days, and Heero didn't much fancy pursuing the reason for this one. 

Duo certainly felt it... between four and five, his time-related inquiries came gradually to be replaced, mostly, by impatient humming and cursing under his breath at intervals. He waved his arms and legs in a distracting little sort of dance, and again Heero could not bring himself to find fault with the behavior; though _he_ wasn't given to fidgeting, and had other things to do anyway, he couldn't deny that he was in exactly the same mood. 

Every minute past five o'clock was downright torturous. If not for the minor Medford disaster, he would have been home by 5:20, and he was more than aware of this with each sixty seconds that passed. Duo had taken to whining intermittently and levering himself around the desk as best he was able, pausing comically if it sounded like anyone was drawing near and might notice him, which was even more distracting than what he'd been doing before. 

The final straw was when Quatre -- office-addict, uphold-the-business-honor-of-the-Winner-family Quatre -- showed up in Heero's cubicle and announced that, since he was being robbed of what was supposed to be his day off tomorrow, he wasn't going to stay any longer tonight. Quatre was leaving _before Heero_. 

"That's it," Heero grumbled the moment his friend was gone. "I'm done after this." He gesture at his monitor almost angrily. "They can figure things out themselves." 

"We really can, you know," came Dorothy's sardonic voice from behind him. She'd stayed late for about the same reasons Heero had, and had probably wandered over now to see what the result of his visit from Quatre would be; though she didn't know exactly what was going on, it wouldn't take a genius to see that _something_ was. "I'm impressed that you're even still here. _Go home_." 

Heero glanced around and up at her. She was giving Duo that thoughtful look again. 

Finally he nodded. It wasn't as if the quality of his work wasn't deteriorating rapidly at the moment anyway. He saved his current progress, told his computer to shut off, and started gathering his things. 

"I'm looking forward to seeing you on Wednesday," was Dorothy's somewhat odd goodbye as Heero, having shrugged into his jacket, took Duo in one hand and his briefcase in the other and pushed his chair in with his knee. He didn't pause to find out what she meant, just nodded as he hastened past her, and then practically broke into a run to get off the sales floor and out of the building.


	136. Plastic Part 85

Duo was not terribly sensitive to G-forces, but he got the feeling Heero was driving significantly faster than usual. And no wonder, really... Duo doubted Heero could be as anxious as he was for what would hopefully happen tonight, but still he must be pretty eager. The silence between them in the car, into the building, and up the stairs was tense, though not necessarily in an uncomfortable way. 

"Shouldn't Quatre have gotten here before us?" Duo wondered when they entered Heero's empty apartment. 

Heero gestured to the door across from the one they'd just used. "He probably went to get Trowa. His car was in the parking lot." 

After Duo's noise of comprehension, the silence returned while Heero changed clothes in haste that wasn't necessary but was definitely understandable. When he emerged from his closet in jeans and a t-shirt, he looked down at Duo where he'd put him on the end of the dresser as usual. Pensively he asked, "Are you going to tell Trowa about the dog?" 

Duo sighed. "No, I don't think so. Just keep your fingers crossed that I won't have to. I'd cross my own, but... you know..." 

Soon Quatre entered with Trowa, both of them looking quite agitated. Quatre threw himself down onto the sofa, and Trowa came to stand stiffly beside where Duo now sat on the kitchen counter. 

"Dinner?" Heero suggested. He'd already been looking through what he had available when the other two arrived. 

"Do you want to cook?" asked Quatre from the couch. "Or should we just order a pizza?" 

"I don't mind," Heero said. He moved Duo across the kitchen and continued digging through cupboards. "I'll make something easy." Duo thought Heero actually rather preferred it this way, as it would give him something to think about. 

"Can I help at all?" Trowa asked cautiously. 

Duo couldn't see Heero's face perfectly from where he sat, but at these words it seemed to take on a somewhat skeptical expression. Heero smoothed it away as he glanced over his shoulder at Trowa, however, and said, "If you want to find the biggest pot in the cupboard behind you and fill it with water..." 

Trowa nodded and obeyed. 

"Heero, can _I_ help you at all?" Quatre echoed Trowa's offer from the living room without, as far as Duo could tell, rising from the sofa. 

"You stay out of my kitchen," Heero replied with mock severity. 

"He can't be _that_ bad," Duo laughed. 

"Wanna bet?" called Quatre. 

"Heero, did you want this boiled?" Trowa asked. 

"Yes, if you can figure out the stove." 

Trowa made a faint disdainful noise as he set the full pot down on the stove, and spoke a water-boiling spell. 

Heero turned in surprise from what he was doing, which involved various vegetable-type substances. "Did you just _tell_ the water to boil?" 

"Aww!" said Duo gleefully. "Heero's hit understanding!" 

"I did," Trowa said. 

Heero stared at the now-boiling water for a moment, then reached for a tall plastic container nearby that held colorful noodles. Handing it to Trowa, he next pointed to a drawer and said, "Put four cups of noodles in." He pulled a large spoon from a closer drawer and added, "And stir it." 

Trowa nodded and obeyed, accepting first the noodles, then the spoon, then looking in the indicated drawer for a measuring cup. 

"So magic is really that simple, is it?" Heero mused quietly. 

Duo had become somewhat hypnotized watching Heero's hands dicing a variety of edible items into precisely similarly-sized pieces. When he realized that Heero had asked a question Trowa was not going to answer, however, he finally said, "Yeah, you pretty much just order things around. That's why it's called 'command magic.'" 

"Is it?" 

"When you order stuff to happen, yeah. There's other kinds too; Trowa could probably tell you better." 

But what Trowa said was, "Did you need more water boiled?" as he gestured with his empty hand to what Heero was chopping. 

"No..." Heero smiled faintly; he obviously wasn't used to _this_ kind of assistance in the kitchen. "But if you want to pull out a frying pan from that same cupboard and grab some margarine from the fridge... there should be half a stick sitting in the door..." 

"You know, Heero," said Duo thoughtfully, "we could help you start casting spells if you wanted. Once you're awake enough where you can understand the magical language, you're usually ready to start--" 

"Not tonight," Heero interrupted firmly. "Maybe sometime, but not tonight." 

Duo laughed. "Yeah, OK, you're probably right." 

At Heero's request, Trowa cast a few more spells to move the cooking process along, which Heero watched in cautious fascination. Duo wondered whether he was really interested, or whether it was simply another way of distracting himself from the concern and impatience he felt for tonight. 

The dish in progress turned out to be pasta salad with shrimp, which the humans ate with wine because there was general agreement that they needed it. This was the first time Duo had ever seen Heero and Quatre drink, and hopefully the last time he would ever have to watch them eating without being able to join in. 

And as they were dining and Duo was looking on, it occurred to him for the first time to wonder, "Hey, Heero... how come you don't have a table?" 

"See?" said Quatre triumphantly. 

"Apparently," Heero said dryly, "it's because I have poor taste." 

"Well, if _is_ kinda weird that you have an _end_ table and not a dining table." 

"_See?_" said Quatre again. 

Heero gave a defeated laugh. "I'll get one one of these days." 

"He's such a bachelor," Quatre commented wisely. 

Duo was so agitated that he didn't consider himself up to any of the flirtatious lines that came easily to mind at this. 

Once the humans had finished eating and cleaned up after the meal, there was some aimless wandering of the limited space available (which would have been even smaller if Heero had possessed a dining table), and then Heero and Quatre settled onto the couch (as far as their agitated and rarely lengthy seated spells could be called 'settling'), while Trowa remained behind and, seeming unaware he was doing it, paced slowly. Heero did invite him to take a seat, but Trowa declined almost without a word. 

A heavy silence fell over all of them, in fact, as time dragged on. It was one of those moments when Duo experienced all the mental effects of something typically considered physical without any of the actual associated sensations -- in this case of stifling, of suffocating, of being slowly crushed by something he could not throw off. There came with this a raging, swelling impatience, both anticipatory and fearful, which was quickly swallowing up all else. 

They tried to watch something to pass the time, but TV seemed even stupider and more aggravating than usual tonight, and they couldn't agree on a movie. Besides, the others seemed more interested in watching Duo anyway. Whether Quatre was seated and fidgeting or making yet another restless circuit of the room, he was turned toward Duo about half the time; it was no surprise that twice he ran right into Trowa. The latter was pretty consistently staring too -- Duo didn't look around from his seat on the end table very often, but he was nevertheless aware of Trowa's gaze. And Heero simply never took his eyes off Duo. 

Under different circumstances Duo would have been pleased by such undivided attention, especially from Heero, but right now it was as if they thought they might miss something if they looked away. As if they wouldn't know the moment he turned human if they weren't actively watching for it. 

And all the while, Duo himself grew more and more nervous and concerned. Surely it had been earlier in the evening than this...! Actually, hadn't he and Heero been within the requisite five feet most of that day? Maybe the dog thing really had messed this up... But what would that entail, exactly? Trowa would undoubtedly know, but to ask him would involve telling him, and Duo didn't even want to be thinking about it himself. 

And they just wouldn't stop staring... 

Finally he snapped. "I swear to god, you guys, if you don't all quit ogling me, I'm going to kill you all as soon as I'm human!" He thought he saw Quatre wince as he said it, and sighed harshly. "Heero, pick me up, would you? If I sit still in here for one more second..." 

Wordlessly Heero obeyed, taking Duo in hand and striding down the hall toward the balcony door with every bit as much impatience in his movements as there had been in Duo's voice. Past the door, he set Duo on the balcony railing, though for safety's sake did not release him. "At least out here," he muttered, staring up into the sky, "we can see the damn thing." 

Duo also turned his eyes toward the moon, and felt himself calm a little. It was a partial moon, not too far from the full, he thought, placid and distant, and not even the brightest source of light in the vicinity. A faint cool wind was blowing, and the night was quiet. 

"It's funny..." he remarked eventually in the most subdued tone he thought he'd used all day. "The moon doesn't really annoy me, even though I know it's got all this to do with me being a doll." 

"You probably haven't had long enough," Heero theorized. "If you'd spent a few years knowing that this magic had to do with the moon, you'd hate it." 

"Yeah..." A long silence followed while Duo thought about those hypothetical years and the very real ones that had already passed. Finally he said slowly, "Listen, Heero..." 

Heero looked abruptly toward him. 

"Thanks for all of this." Duo's meaning wasn't really enhanced by the gesture he made here, but at least he got to use one of his elbows. "I want you to know that, even if this doesn't work, I'll still appreciate everything you've done for me just as much. OK?" 

"Don't talk like that," Heero ordered. "Give it a little while longer, and you'll be human again." 

Duo made a sound of longing, which didn't even begin to express the strength of the emotion that filled his entire spirit, and turned his eyes back up toward the moon. Afterwhile, without looking away from the light in the sky, he murmured, "But seriously..." 

And it almost came out right then and there. He almost told Heero everything. It was on the tip of his nonexistent tongue, and only with difficulty and indeed some reluctance did he restrain it at all. _Not yet!_ he reminded himself. _Don't ruin this!_

"Thanks a lot," he finally managed. 

Heero squeezed him. "You're welcome." And then they both went back to watching the moon in tense silence. Watching and waiting.


	137. Plastic Part 86

  


When Heero picked Duo up and left the room with him, Quatre and Trowa looked after them for several moments before the former got up, took his boyfriend firmly by the shoulders, guided him to the couch, and forced him to sit down. 

For another little while Trowa still tried to see past the TV stand down the hall in the direction the others had gone. Finally, shaking his head, he murmured, "It's late." 

Knowing that Trowa meant not, _"It's late in the day,"_ but, _"This is taking longer than I expected,"_ Quatre drew a deep breath and asked calmly, "Why might that be?" 

Trowa gave a slight, helpless shrug. "There's so little to go on here... no fully transformative curse that I've been able to find a record of has been this powerful, never lasted more than few years. I've heard of less comprehensive curses lasting this long, but this is different. This is unexplored territory." 

"Groundbreaking magic from the magnificent Trowa Barton." Quatre was trying for levity, but all he managed was levelness. 

Trowa replied in much the same spirit. "As long as ground is the only thing that ends up broken..." 

Seconds felt like minutes in an atmosphere like this, and after a while Quatre had no concrete idea of how much time had actually passed. Was it time to start _really_ worrying yet? Or was he getting ahead of himself? The silence grew heavier and heavier, pressing down on him until he wanted to bend over and rest his head in his hands. He wished Heero and Duo would come back inside, just so they could all suffer together, but he suspected they were dealing with the same thing out there in their own ways. 

Finally, when he felt he couldn't take it anymore, he cleared his throat and asked, more or less in the same level tone as before, "Conceivably, what could have gone wrong?" Besides Cairo, of course. Because if this didn't work... if nothing happened tonight... they might not even really know what, exactly, had caused the process to fail. 

"I might have misinterpreted my visions," Trowa began slowly. "That's not likely... I've had a long time to learn to interpret visions... but I'm no diviner, and there's always the possibility that I was wrong. We may have been going about this entirely the wrong way, or there may have been some crucial component to the process that I missed, or... god knows what. 

"Some magic required even after everything is done... some final, triggering key spell... I may need to be out of Duo's vicinity... the artifact may need to be _in_ his vicinity... I just don't know. Of course there's always the chance that something's happened... that they haven't managed to stay within range this entire lunar cycle, and just haven't told us..." 

Quatre couldn't stand it. With a deep breath that came back out as a sigh, he turned his eyes toward the ceiling and said, "Trowa, listen..." When there was only silence from beside him, he forced himself to go on, "We actually think that might have happened. That they got out of range, I mean." 

Trowa still said nothing, and Quatre finally looked back over to find him staring, blank-faced, clearly waiting for more information. 

"Remember I told you I had Cairo in the car with me running errands the other day? And he started getting sick because it's been a while since I've taken him driving?" At Trowa's nod, he went on, "When I brought him here so Heero could give him some water, he..." Quatre threw his hands up in despair. "I have no idea why he did it! He picked up Duo and brought him over to me. I can't figure out why he would have--" 

"Cairo took Duo out of Heero's psychic field?" Trowa broke in. 

"That's the thing... we don't know for sure." Quatre's tone was miserable. "I wasn't looking; I didn't even know it had happened until Cairo showed up next to me with Duo in his mouth. Heero wasn't sure how far it was, and I didn't see." 

Slowly Trowa nodded. "Wasn't this last week some time?" 

"Thursday." 

"Why didn't you tell me?" 

Quatre winced. "I'm sorry... Duo didn't want to worry you, and he asked me not to." 

"Duo..." With a faint smile, Trowa shook his head. 

"I couldn't decide whether or not to tell you, and that defaulted into not telling you. I didn't want you to worry either... you were so much happier when you were convinced that the curse would break, and I didn't want to make you unhappy when we didn't know for sure whether it was even going to affect anything." 

With a raised brow Trowa pointed out somewhat flatly, "That's a familiar argument." 

"I know! I know. I..." Quatre looked at him helplessly. "I apologize." 

Trowa took his hand. "It's all right. Though if you'd told me before, I could have made all of you feel a little better by explaining something about magic. Duo really should know this, but maybe he's forgotten..." 

"What?" Quatre was suddenly eager, even a little startled by the words. There had been hope all along, it seemed, regarding this particular issue, and he'd denied it to himself and his friends by his own indecision. 

"Magic is rarely all or nothing." Trowa paused for a moment, then added seriously, "When there's 'a complete cycle of the moon' involved, I'm less certain about this than I would normally be, but even so... magic is almost never black and white; it's more of a spectrum. I believe--" he emphasized the word slightly, another reminder that he didn't feel _entirely_ sure about any of this-- "that if your dog really did take Duo outside of Heero's psychic field, it's far more likely to have pushed out the time or date than started the entire cycle over." 

For a moment Quatre just sat still with his mouth slightly open, but finally he managed, "So that would explain why this is taking so much longer than we'd expected!" 

Trowa nodded. 

"God... I feel like an idiot... I should have just _told_ you..." 

Again Trowa smiled, more warmly than before, and squeezed Quatre's hand a little. 

Quatre shook his head. "I'm so sorry..." he murmured. 

Slowly Trowa's smile faded, and his brows drew together into a look of concern. "Actually, I feel like I owe _you_ an apology." 

"Why?" 

"I want you to know... I'm sorry about the way I spoke when I told you I might die. It took me a while, because I was shut off in my research as usual, but eventually I realized why you probably got up and left so quickly... I just assumed at the time it was because you had better things to do than deal with me, but then after what you said the other day, I realized it had probably... bothered you... to hear me talking about dying." 

Smiling regretfully, Quatre admitted, "Yes. It bothered me a _lot_. It's been bothering me ever since, too." 

"I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking. I didn't realize how it might sound to you, and then I misinterpreted your behavior because--" 

"I know." Quatre took Trowa's other hand. "It's all right. Your self-esteem could still use some work, but we'll get to that if you survive." 

"I hope I do," Trowa said, and it came out almost a whisper. "If I implied that I have nothing left to live for, it wasn't true. I want to see Duo human again. I want Heero not to hate me. I want to be with you." 

Quatre bent so that his forehead rested against Trowa's, and closed his eyes. "So do I," he said, agreeing with everything. 

They sat thus for some time, until they were abruptly startled by the sound of shouting from outside. Forgetting that he wouldn't be able to see anything out there with the TV stand blocking his view of the hallway, Quatre glanced in that direction. When he looked back, he caught his breath as his heart suddenly stopped beating for a dizzy moment and then began a hot, startled pounding against his ribcage. "Trowa...!"


	138. Plastic Part 87

  


This was agony. Heero had never been so anxious for anything in his life, so worried and impatient. What Duo must be feeling he couldn't even begin to imagine. 

What if this didn't work? What if the night rolled on and on, what if the moon rose higher and higher, and nothing happened? Would they simply start over and try to keep closer this time? What effect would that have on Duo? Hell, on _Heero_? Could he live another thirty days like this? He never had managed to tell Duo the unfortunate news about Trowa... how much longer would he keep putting that off? 

There was no warning; it happened all at once, with a slight flash: Heero found that his hand was no longer clenched around a small plastic figure in a Star Trek uniform, but resting on the warm flesh of a bare human arm. He drew in a breath that was stabbingly sharp in its suddenness as he jerked the hand back instinctively. The entire world seemed to grind to a maddeningly painful sluggishness as Heero turned slowly under the moonlight to look at Duo for the first time. 

Standing a couple of inches taller than him, Duo, though solidly-built, was as scrawny as Heero would expect of someone that hadn't actually eaten in eighty-seven years (though, logically, why he should have expected this, when Duo had been a _doll_ for all that time, he wasn't really sure). And as Duo was completely naked -- of the little uniform there was no visible trace -- it was obvious that he was also every bit as well-hung as his plastic proportions had indicated, though Heero (for various reasons) didn't let his gaze linger long that far down. 

Moonlight on one side and electric light from indoors on the other fell on skin from head to toe that looked smooth and flawless. (A result of the curse breaking, perhaps? Heero had no concept of what that entailed, nor of what Duo's skin had been like before.) His braid, still coming undone at the end as it never _had_ been tied properly, fell as far as ever, but now obviously had the weight and fluidity dictated by its new mass, since it was swinging gently from side to side as if from sudden motion. 

And his face... It was like seeing a work of art done over in a totally different style... the live-action version of a long-running cartoon... all the aspects Heero had come to know, now in a more appreciable form. But that wasn't all. Simply put, Duo's face was perfectly, stunningly beautiful. And his eyes really did seem -- though it was hard to tell in this dimness -- actually to be that impossibly warm blue Heero had so long admired. 

Heero would have known him anywhere in an instant -- without the braid, without the eye color. Beyond these obvious identifiers, there were other, subtler indications that yet spoke loudly to Heero: even in this long-awaited, breathless moment between the curse and the rest of his life, even dazed and motionless, Duo's bearing and expression, perhaps some invisible air about him, were so perfectly typical of him, of everything Heero knew of him, that he would have known him even if every physical feature had been completely different from what he'd anticipated. 

The moment ended. Duo's eyes widened, and he swayed slightly as if, as seemed not unlikely, his sense of balance was a little rusty. He clutched the balcony railing for a second or two, breathing hard, and his gaze sought out Heero's. Then he threw himself at Heero and started to scream. 

There were words in there somewhere, but Heero couldn't make them out. He was far too occupied being squeezed to death by the enraptured Duo; trying to keep them upright as Duo half jumped, half danced even while hugging Heero; hoping not to go deaf as Duo shouted his sudden, overwhelming excitement and happiness directly into Heero's ear; wondering vaguely what the neighbors were making of this; and processing his own massive relief and pleasure at the success of the past month's endeavors. 

Duo was threatening to drag them both to the ground with his wild movements, his arms strong and warm and insistent on Heero's shoulders, and he was still yelling. Heero was laughing in amusement and fondness at Duo's behavior and happiness at the situation in general, but he couldn't help thinking that out on the balcony might not be the best place for a naked Duo to go on screaming. Heero thought he'd already seen signs of other apartment-dwellers' curiosity or annoyance at the circumstance. 

His suggestion they go inside probably wasn't heard at all; but Duo did allow himself to be led, a little unsteady, through the door. There he stopped in the hall, as if he was incapable of walking any farther -- and his faulty balance made this theory seem plausible -- and continued his rejoicing with tears running down his face. 

This time Heero could pick words and phrases out of the noise, but they were so slurred and disjointed still -- "walking agnn... muscles, ohmygod... eighty-se'en... feel th'air... moving around'n my own... whole fucking month..." -- that Heero's laughter did not abate. At least, not until Duo put his hands on him. 

If they weren't exactly the same hands Heero had invented for his fantasies, they were close enough that the old, hypothetical image was already melting into the wonderful reality. And now they were sliding manically over Heero's body, across his face and through his hair, up and down his shoulders and arms and back and chest. 

"It's _real_," Duo said, more or less coherently. "I can _feel_ you." He obviously had no idea of the effect this was having on Heero, nor how close the latter feared he was to giving everything away. And yet Heero couldn't move; he'd wanted for so long to have Duo's hands on him, the tangible warmth and presence of Duo so near him, that he simply could not bring himself to pull away. His entire body was heating, desire washing through him. 

Then Duo threw his arms around Heero, pushing right up against him; Heero could feel Duo's face against his neck, and Duo's hot, excited breaths on his skin ensured that Heero could draw none of his own. "You smell j's like I imagined," Duo whispered. He lifted his hands and ran them through Heero's hair again as he drew back, and Heero feared that his effort not to shudder in response was in vain. Half an instant later it didn't matter, though, for Duo had come eye-to-eye with him again -- and leaned in and kissed him. 

Utterly stunned, Heero couldn't at first respond in any way. But when Duo would have pulled away almost immediately in a jerky movement suggesting he hadn't meant to do it in the first place, an instinct not unlike self-preservation kicked in and sent Heero's hands out clutching at Duo hastily and desperately, keeping him close, and he kissed him back hard. It didn't matter that Duo had probably only done it in the heat of his returning sensations. It didn't matter that it undoubtedly didn't mean to him what it meant to Heero. All that mattered in the entire universe was that Duo, human again, was kissing him. 

Duo's eyes widened, and then he pushed even closer, pulling at Heero more tightly, and thrust his tongue into Heero's mouth. And perhaps he'd been having a hard time getting it to work properly for a while at first, but he seemed to have remembered plenty about its usage by now. 

He was hot through Heero's clothes, his restless hands still running across Heero's form with abandon, and Heero's concerns about why Duo had begun this kiss were melting away along with the rest of creation. His arms slid up Duo's bare back, which was as smooth and flawless as it had appeared in the moonlight, one hand taking hold of the braid and gripping it tightly while the other simply pulled at Duo as if it were possible for him to come nearer. He was pressed fully up against Heero as it was, clutching just as desperately as Heero and squirming as if unable to stand still, provoking Heero into that full display of desire he'd been so trepidatious about just a few minutes before. 

Duo's skin beneath Heero's hands was warm and soft, and he smelled and tasted strong and new and clean as if he'd just been made. And he was kissing Heero with a passion and intensity that suggested Heero had been wrong about a number of things. Only when Heero was thoroughly dizzy, erect, and breathless -- and god knew how Duo was affected, given that he'd _already_ been unsteady -- did they break apart far enough to draw in gasping breaths and attempt verbal expression. 

"I thought..." Heero was staring at Duo's eyes -- Duo's beautiful human eyes; how _could_ they really be that color? -- and speaking only a breath away from his lips. "I thought you didn't..." 

"I thought _you_ didn't!" Duo replied. 

And by mutual accord they erased the distance between them again -- this time in a bone-creaking hug, holding each other as close as possible as if in defiance of this apparently long-running misunderstanding. 

"Well, I do," Heero said fiercely into Duo's ear. 

"Me too," said Duo, rendering the entire exchange a triumph of coherency. "Forever and ever and ever." 

Heero chuckled weakly at this, though he really felt like crying. He was aware of Duo's shiver at the touch of his breath against his neck. "Oh, god," Duo said, and began slowly and very deliberately grinding his bare erection against Heero's clothed one. "It is _so good_ to finally be able to _feel_ you." 

Both the touch and the words made Heero shudder, which was punctuated by another wave of desire. As he drew back, releasing Duo, he saw in the other's face a look of mixed need, pleasure, and apprehension lest he'd been too forward. Heero took him by both hands and, walking backwards, pulled him through the door into his shadowy bedroom. Duo, now grinning with relief, allowed himself to be maneuvered toward the bed. 

"Sit down," Heero commanded. "You're going to feel this."


	139. Plastic Part 88

  


"Trowa...!" 

Trowa looked up from where he'd been staring at his hands, which he'd withdrawn from Quatre's, and this time Quatre's gasp was audible. He reached out and took hold of Trowa's face, and found in doing so that his lover was shaking. 

"Trowa, your eyes..." This emerged in a whisper as Quatre stared in wonder at the real green of the irises, the black of the pupils, the natural shine, the sparkle of tears. And all around these... Quatre ran his hands up and down Trowa's face almost without realizing he was doing it. He'd been correct in his speculation that the softness and smoothness of Trowa's skin would not change with the curse -- but the color was suddenly healthy and natural: still pale, but only within the range of normal coloration. Quatre would miss that faint glow, he had to admit, sickly as it had often seemed, but to see Trowa looking so human was heart-rendingly wonderful -- because the physical changes, of course, were all secondary to the great, glorious point, far brighter than glowing eyes or skin, that Trowa was _alive_. 

Trowa pushed forward through the boundary of Quatre's hands and clasped him tightly. He felt the same as ever, except for, perhaps, a greater vitality to his movement and the strength of his arms. Quatre returned the embrace with just as much intensity, and was unsurprised to find tears leaking from his own eyes in his happiness and relief. 

The excited screaming from down the hall grew suddenly louder with the sound of the balcony door sliding open, then turned to what from here was little more than incoherent babbling. It was definitely Duo's voice, finally at a normal human volume again (though this was the first time Quatre had heard it thus). Slowly Quatre and Trowa drew apart and looked at each other's tearstained faces with very similar expressions of happiness so deep it surpassed even smiling. 

"It's over," Trowa said. 

Quatre nodded. 

Duo's voice in the hall had gradually quieted, and now went entirely silent. A little unsteadily, Trowa got to his feet, and Quatre followed. Together they went to the doorway to see their newly-human friend. 

He was easily recognized; in this form, his braid must have been three feet long. He was also completely naked, and very enthusiastically kissing Heero. In fact, even as they watched, Heero's arms slid up around Duo's bare back to pull him closer. 

Now Quatre found himself grinning and inclined to laugh aloud from pure joy. He tore from the interesting sight, though, and, pulling Trowa with him, turned away. Looking as if he wanted to go back, Trowa began to protest, but Quatre interrupted. "Leave them alone for now." 

"But I haven't--" 

"He's not going anywhere," Quatre insisted. "Come on." 

Very reluctantly, Trowa allowed himself to be led across the room into his house; Quatre soothed him as he went, "They know where to find us if they're not busy with something else." Under his breath he added, "So much for Duo being in love with _you_..." 

Trowa sounded a little startled as he requested clarification. 

"Oh, that's what Heero thought. He's been pining over Duo all this time without saying anything about it because of that." 

"But..." Trowa's brow furrowed slightly. "But I thought it was obvious that Duo was interested in Heero. That's half the reason the curse is broken now." 

"Is it?" asked Quatre, greatly interested. 

"When I cursed Duo," Trowa explained, "I accused him of only pretending to care about that woman, of being fake. So the curse demanded that he genuinely care about someone. It had to be someone with magical abilities who wanted to see him human, so that their psychic field would influence his, but it wouldn't have done a thing for him if he didn't have that connection with them." 

"Why didn't you mention this before?" There was, Quatre considered, something very deja vu about asking this. 

"This whole thing started with me telling Duo what I thought he felt about someone. I didn't dare do it again." 

Quatre laughed. "One of these days, all four of us are going to have to get together and make a pact not to keep secrets from each other anymore." 

"So Heero really believed Duo wasn't interested in him?" Trowa came back to this point with evident skepticism, and maybe a touch of pity. 

"Heero's jealous in relationships," Quatre shrugged. "Duo probably just mentioned your name a few too many times." 

Trowa nodded. "That explains some things," he murmured. 

By this time they were settled in the chair in the study, and now Quatre began kissing Trowa's face in a clear but wordless change of subject. 

"I suppose I'll have to look in a mirror at some point," Trowa said, and didn't sound entirely pleased at the prospect. 

"For now you can just take my word that you look wonderful." At this Trowa made a skeptical noise, and Quatre laughed. "You never told me you had _freckles_," he added in mock accusation. 

"Do I?" Trowa sounded utterly blank at first, but then he went on in a tone of recollection, "I... suppose I probably should, yes..." 

"I'm going to kiss them all," murmured Quatre. "And later I'm definitely going to want to see if you have more anywhere else. Your skin is still so soft..." 

"I'll have to think about things like that now... my skin, I mean..." This was spoken in the same somewhat worried tone he'd used to reference the mirror. "I won't be immortal anymore. I'll have to start eating even more, and showering, and remembering to sleep... because the artifact will have to be destroyed, so I won't be nearly as powerful. Which means I won't be able to get the things I need in exchange for magical favors... Quatre, I don't know how to live..." 

"Trowa." Quatre was simultaneously amused, exasperated, and remonstrative. "Why are you worrying about all of this right now?" He rose onto his knees in the chair and again took Trowa's face in his hands. "We have the rest of your life to figure it all out." 

There was a long moment in which it seemed that Trowa was going to protest, go on listing reasons to be concerned about the future. But once that moment ended, Trowa's brows twitched downward in what seemed to be a look of determination. Emphatically he said, "Yes. We do." And, very deliberately, he pulled Quatre closer to him in a gesture free of any uncertainty, and kissed him.


	140. Plastic Part 89

Duo felt like the whole world was exploding around him. Of course it had been a very long time since he'd felt anything, but he didn't think he'd ever felt like _this_ before. 

He groaned, and his head fell against his shoulders -- which was in itself glorious, as it had been so long since he'd been able to feel the back of his head or his shoulders or his braid crinkling in the juncture -- as Heero blazed a prickling path with his tongue over the most responsive of Duo's skin. 

This, among an overwhelming host of other sensations, was spectacular almost to the point of impossibility; Duo could hardly believe the entire situation. After convincing himself that he _must_ wait a while before telling Heero how he felt, here was Heero sucking his cock. Heero liked him... Heero wanted him... and was more than proving it now. 

"Oh, god," Duo moaned, working his hands into Heero's hair. He already loved the feeling of Heero's hair, and the texture and warmth of Heero's skin as his hands slid down his neck, but it wasn't quite enough. Maybe he was just a greedy bastard, but... 

"Heero..." he groaned. 

"Mmm?" The vibration from this acknowledgment almost made Duo come right then. 

"This..." he gasped. "This is amazing... but I want more of you... _right now_..." He wanted Heero against him; he wanted a more complete connection to him, after so long thinking of himself as little more than Heero's charity project; he wanted the sensations of being with Heero to eclipse all others and stamp the first hours of his new human life with the smell of him, the feel of his skin, the taste of his kisses, the sound of his ecstasy. He wished he could articulate all of this, but at the moment he was simply too overwhelmed. 

Heero seemed to understand, though; either that or he was caught up in the moment as well. At any rate, with a lingering trailing of his tongue that made Duo moan helplessly again, he pulled away and stood. He said nothing, but the look he gave Duo as he reached for the hem of his t-shirt to pull it over his head was so hot and intense that Duo shuddered. Heero tossed the shirt onto the floor, and Duo eyed his bare chest covetously. It wasn't as if he'd never seen and, indeed, greatly admired it before; but things were different when he had hormones and the prospect of putting his hands and mouth all over it. 

His attention didn't linger there, however, as Heero was now taking off his pants. Duo had only been breathing again for a short while, but he was already rediscovering the art of holding his breath in anticipation as he watched Heero's clothing come off. Whatever underwear Heero might or might not have on slid down and hit the floor along with the jeans, and he was stepping out completely naked the next instant. 

"Good _god_, you are hot," Duo said. And it was suddenly a very good thing that Heero had done his changing out of Duo's sight all those times, because this knowledge, without the ability to do anything about it, would, without a doubt, have made something important inside Duo snap. 

Heero smiled at him, again utterly stealing Duo's breath. Then, to Duo's momentary frustration, instead of coming within reach, he moved around the bed and extracted something from the nightstand drawer. When he returned to the spot in front of Duo again, his tempting hips just beyond the reach of Duo's grasping hands, the object he held was revealed to be a plastic bottle full of thick bluish liquid. 

"Was I 'sleeping' right above that this whole time?" Duo demanded, amused and aroused. 

"Wait 'til you hear what I was doing in the shower this whole time," Heero murmured, "with you just outside the bathroom door." 

Duo definitely would have pursued this topic, but at that moment -- _finally_ \-- Heero climbed onto the bed, kneeling, straddling Duo's lap. Taking Duo's face in both hands (he must have set the bottle down somewhere), he kissed him deeply and intensely, pressing against him. 

As he felt so much of Heero's skin in such blazing close contact with his own, Duo groaned in his throat, and his hands swarmed over Heero's body in search of more. He wanted it _all_; he wanted every last inch of Heero for his very own, and it was a shame that he couldn't touch him everywhere at once. 

Heero threaded fingers through Duo's braided hair and pulled at him, intensifying the kiss almost to the point of pain. Duo thought it could have been a good deal more painful, though, and he still would have reveled in it. The weight and heat of Heero settled in his lap was divine, and the air was starting to smell faintly of sweat. 

As Duo began running fingers over Heero's buttocks and thighs, which were taut where Heero's legs spread around his, Heero released him and let his own hands explore. As he teased one of Duo's nipples, Duo's head rolled to the side with a gasp of pleasure. At the same moment, Heero moved his hips, rubbing their stiff cocks against each other in a burst of heat and pleasure that made Duo cry out. 

"Oh, god, Heero, that feels so good..." Duo found that, though he was perfectly capable of shouting his pleasure aloud as it came to him, actual words emerged only in a groaning whisper. "I should probably tell you... I've never done it with a guy before..." 

Heero nodded and kissed him again. And now he rose up on his knees, his hands releasing Duo even as he kissed him from this higher angle, pressed against him, squirming slightly. Duo's lap felt cold and abandoned suddenly, and he made a noise that was half disappointed and half intrigued at the contrast. Heero, probably correctly interpreting the sound, chuckled breathlessly, drawing away from Duo's lips and moving to kiss his jaw and ear instead. 

Duo's hands were running up and down the backs of Heero's thighs, which were trembling slightly as Heero ground his erection against Duo's stomach. And the next moment Heero went from nibbling Duo's earlobe to groaning out his name in evident pleasure. The sound of the word made Duo shiver so intensely that his entire body stiffened and pressed even harder against Heero's. 

"I've always loved the way you say my name," he whispered, "but I think that one was my favorite." 

In response, Heero murmured again, "Duo..." and straightened a little to look him in the eye. At his expression, simultaneously serious and adoring and lustful, Duo felt a line of fire race from swollen lips through his throbbing chest into his anxious groin. Heero's eyes were astonishingly beautiful. 

"You're doing funny things to my heart," he told him. "And I _just_ got it back." 

"You can have mine," said Heero, and kissed him again. And it was funny how so corny a line could make Duo's chest ache so wonderfully and his already throbbing erection even harder and more desperate than before. 

Suddenly Heero's hand, which Duo hadn't felt for some time, was on his cock, startling a cry out of him; as it was slick with lubricant, Duo thought he could guess now what Heero had been busy with. And as Heero rubbed Duo's erection quickly and thoroughly up and down, Duo was reduced to a state of trembling, groaning helplessness, leaning back slightly, bracing himself a little unsteadily on his balled fists on the bed. 

"I'm not... you're going to... I can't..." He wanted to warn Heero that he was going to come _very_ soon if this continued, but apparently finishing a sentence was another thing he couldn't do. 

Heero seemed once again to understand him without needing to have the thought completed, however. He drew back, rising up onto his knees again and reaching down. Taking hold of Duo's erection, he angled his hips and pressed slowly downward onto it, guiding the process with one hand while keeping himself open with the other. 

"A-ah!" Duo cried as he was enveloped by tight, glorious heat. "Heero... Heero..." 

Heero regarded him with slitted eyes as he sank completely onto him with a long sigh. Then there followed a protracted moment of stillness that felt like the calm before a storm, during which they stared at each other through hazy eyes and Duo said once more, adoringly, "Heero..." 

And then Heero kissed him again, and started to move. 

The world was exploding as it had earlier, but this time it was harder and brighter and faster. Duo broke what would have been a kiss with a groaning cry as Heero rose up and then sank back down. Also groaning softly, Heero abandoned Duo's mouth, leaving it free to let out his growing pleasure, and moved to chew on his ear again instead. Duo could feel the warmth and motion and moisture of heavy breathing, hear the touches of voice that crept into Heero's panting. But all noises were swiftly blurring together as Heero rode him harder and faster, urging him on with slick tightness toward orgasm. 

He'd had sex before... but it had never felt like this. Granted, it had always been with women in the past (the _distant_ past), but he doubted there was anyone in the world, man or woman, that could make him feel like this. The way it felt to be inside Heero, to have Heero against him, kissing him, loving him; the taste of Heero's mouth (which was probably at least somewhat the taste of shrimp pasta salad); the damp, hot sliding of Heero's skin against Duo's everywhere they were connected -- Heero, the man that had saved him, had given him new life... 

And yet... Duo would never, never tell Heero, but along with all these wonders there was also the sensation of his toes curling in the carpet; the tenseness of his legs that seemed to cling to the bed, working hard to keep him in his current position so as not to break the beautiful rhythm; the sweat beginning to trickle down from his knees; his thighs and buttocks against the crinkled blanket, and the weave of its cloth against his skin; the burning of his clenching biceps that struggled to support them both; the tickling of his hair against his face; the smells of sweat and sex... everything around him, all of these long-missed sensations combined irresistibly with what Heero was doing to him to bring him hard. He gave a sharp, inarticulate cry as the world blazed white-hot and heavenly for a long, perfect moment. 

Somebody knocked angrily on the wall, and Duo laughed faintly and giddily. His head was spinning, and he wasn't surprised to find himself falling over, collapsing onto the cool blanket with Heero on top of him. The movement tugged at his now-flaccid length still inside Heero's tight ass, and Duo groaned in mingled pleasure and discomfort. 

"As if they aren't at it every night of the week," Heero muttered, clearly referring to the annoyed neighbors on the other side of the wall. He squirmed free of Duo's cock with a sigh, and settled onto his side against Duo's sweaty body. 

Duo turned to face him, still loving the feeling of the blanket beneath him and the air on his damp skin and the fading shockwave of orgasm. He met Heero's eyes and smiled. "It's good to be human again." 

Heero smiled back. "It's good to have you human." 

Duo leaned forward and kissed him again briefly, then took one of Heero's hands in both of his. "It's all thanks to you," he said, and sighed in contentment. "And now good luck getting rid of me." 

Heero grinned. "I've put up with you this long..." 

Duo snuggled into him. "Yes," he said complacently. "Thank god for that."


	141. Plastic Part 90

"Just so you know," Duo was sighing, cuddling slowly closer against Heero and running a hand lovingly up his neck, "that was far and away the best sex I've ever had." 

There were too many potentially really weird responses Heero could have made to this, given Duo's history; eventually he decided simply to widen his grin, pulling as he did so, a little absently, at his still-erect cock. Duo, eyes dragged away from Heero's face by the motion, looked down and realized. 

Abruptly he sat up, and didn't seem to mind that doing so made him reel a little, dizzily. "Heero! You didn't--" He glanced around at the wall, and went on in less of a shout, "Now you should really do me." 

Heero didn't need to hear _that_ invitation twice. He wasn't too terribly surprised that Duo had made it, either. Even as he also sat up and looked around for the discarded lubricant, though, he commented wryly, "If you think my neighbors can handle it." 

"I think we have to take the chance," Duo replied with mock seriousness. "It may be a matter of life and death." Then he lay back again, tugging at Heero's hand as if to pull him on top of him once more. The light gleamed off his sweat-slicked skin, and Heero drew in a sharp breath at the look in his eye. He allowed himself to be pulled down atop Duo, and soon was slowly exploring Duo's mouth again with his tongue as he ground against him. 

At first Duo's hands worked through Heero's hair, a sensation Heero was already falling in love with, but after not too long they shifted to running all over his neck and back and sides again. Duo was still hung up on feeling him, it seemed, and Heero thought that fucking him from this position would probably best satisfy this particular inclination. 

He was already achingly hard, but the idea of having this burning need fulfilled by Duo, that Duo wanted it to be, and the way Duo was kissing him seemed likely now to drive him into a frenzy. Their previous connection had almost made him come, but it hadn't quite lasted long enough. Now, with the feeling of being filled and stretched and loved from the inside still lingering, Heero doubted he would last long either. 

One of Duo's hands had evidently fallen on the bottle of lube, as he was pushing it insistently against Heero's side. Heero took it without looking; eager as he was to make use of it, at the moment he was preoccupied with the softness of Duo's lower lip and the noises he found he could wring from Duo as he sucked on it. Eventually, though, he pulled away, looking into Duo's sparkling eyes and tasting as before his utterly untainted breath. 

Duo grinned, squirming beneath him in a manner clearly calculated to keep things moving. Breathlessly Heero returned the expression and sat back, at which Duo drew one leg up, inviting Heero in. 

Heero coated his fingers with lubricant -- the hand opposite the one he'd used on himself -- and slid the first one inside Duo. The latter made a noise of interest and some surprise as Heero pulled at him. When he added a second finger Duo commented somewhat shakily, "That feels weird." 

"Good weird or bad weird?" 

"I-don't-know-yet-but-don't-stop weird." 

Heero grinned again and pushed further in. He was watching Duo's slitted eyes and parted lips, and anticipating joining so intimately with him once again. He added a third finger. Duo, clenching with a tight heat that promised extreme pleasure to come, gasped, "Ah! Definitely good weird!" 

Carefully, Heero bent and kissed him as he continued to probe deeper. He knew he'd found what he was looking for when Duo stiffened, breaking from his lips with a startled, ecstatic cry. As Heero continued somewhat awkwardly to massage the spot with his fingertips, Duo writhed and groaned beneath him; and when he ceased and slowly withdrew the penetrating digits, Duo panted almost unintelligibly, "Can you... hit that... with your cock?" 

"I certainly plan on trying," Heero replied. As he shifted into position between Duo's legs, Duo drew both knees up enthusiastically. "Tell me if it bothers you," Heero said, readying himself at Duo's entrance, "and I'll stop." 

"You'll never hear _me_ beg for mercy." 

Heero had begun to push into him, but at this, with a monumental effort and a faint breathless smile, he paused. "Seriously, Duo," he panted. "If I hurt you within an hour of you being human again, I will never forgive myself." 

"Fine, fine," was Duo's impatient reply. His hands rose to clutch at Heero's back. "Just do it!" 

So Heero did. Sliding slowly in, he bent low over Duo's body so as to come into as close contact with him as possible. The area behind his eyes was already going nova before his entire length was buried, and he tried to concentrate on finding an angle that would brush Duo's prostate, as promised, before he completely lost his presence of mind and primal urges took over. 

Evidently he succeeded, for Duo was twisting beneath him after only a few thrusts, moaning sharply in conjunction with his quick rhythm. At a particularly loud outcry, Heero thought somebody next door knocked on the wall again, but that might only have been the pounding of blood in his ears. In any case he merely quickened his pace. 

This was like a beautiful dream; he almost couldn't believe it. Admittedly it was mostly like a very specific type of beautiful dream, but that wasn't to say he hadn't had non-sexual dreams about Duo as well that mirrored some aspects of this scene. The awareness that Duo wanted him, was happy to be with him... the welcome in his eyes and voice... his very presence here now the curse was broken... if Heero had hoped at all for any of these, it had been for some time in the distant future when Duo's heart had mended and he'd had time to notice Heero that way. And yet here they were now, making love, toward which Duo's attention and care seemed entirely directed. 

"Wow..." Duo was gasping. "I knew... I knew this had to be... good... but I didn't... realize..." 

"Do you like it?" Heero whispered. It was an inane question, but, apart from the fact that he'd very much enjoyed Duo's earlier assertion of how good he felt, he also couldn't come up with any more intelligent response. 

"Yes," Duo groaned. "Oh, god, yes." 

Heero wished he could keep this up until Duo had recovered and could get erect again, but he was too close, and he couldn't bring himself to stop and wait at this point -- and that "Oh, god, yes" was just too much. His fingers tightened in the blanket they'd already been crumpling as he came hard deep inside of Duo. He heard nothing from beyond the wall; either his groan hadn't been loud enough to disturb, or the neighbors had given up, or perhaps he had simply been too transported to notice their protests. 

As he settled into stillness on top of Duo, the latter began slowly to pet his hair, and murmured, "That's what I wanted to hear..." 

Heero had to assume that Duo did _not_ mean the sound of next door knocking. He kissed him, breathless and imprecise, and eased out of him. 

"Oh," Duo breathed, squirming. "Wow." 

Heero made an inarticulate sound of amusement and satisfaction. 

"That was amazing." Duo began wrapping his limbs around Heero in a manner that seemed designed more to allow him to continue feeling as much of Heero as possible all at once than for comfort, which made Heero chuckle a little even as he nodded his agreement. And then Duo added, "_You're_ amazing." 

Marvelously, astonishingly, ridiculously happy, Heero held Duo tighter, and they lay still in the cooling shadows. 

Finally Duo broke the silence again. "OK, Heero... it's time..." 

"Hmm?" 

"You liked me, apparently, and I was flirting with you every day... why the hell didn't you say something?" 

"Why didn't _you_?" Heero returned evasively, jarred from his warm lethargy. "Flirting like yours doesn't count." 

"Hey, I asked first." Duo was withdrawing from the convoluted embrace, and at last sat up again, looking down at Heero. 

"I thought..." Heero found this a little embarrassing to talk about. "I thought you were still in love with Trowa." 

Duo blinked. "How did you know I was _ever_ in love with Trowa?" 

Also sitting up, Heero explained briefly about the original misconception that had only been furthered by a certain email from Quatre. 

"So they _are_ together!" cried Duo triumphantly. "I _thought_ so!" 

Heero smiled. "That's why Quatre's been neglecting us for weeks." 

"Weeks?! This has been going on for _weeks_ and you didn't tell me?" 

"I thought... I didn't want to hurt you... I couldn't figure out how..." 

Duo leaned forward and squeezed Heero tightly. "Well, for future reference, I've been over Trowa for fifty years or something, and _you_ happen to be the one I'm in love with." 

Heero felt his face burning. "'In love?'" he echoed hoarsely. "Don't you think it's a bit early for that?" 

"We've been practically dating for a complete lunar cycle." Duo's tone was chiding, but he didn't sound hurt. Thank god he didn't sound hurt. "Also I'm pretty sure we just had sex. Twice, even. Seems plenty late enough to me." 

Heero felt the first stirrings of panic. Was Duo expecting a reciprocal declaration at this point? It was quite possible that he _was_ in love with Duo, but flatly _im_possible that he could put it into words just yet. 

Duo seemed to sense this reluctance on Heero's part, and not to be bothered by it, for he kissed Heero six times and changed the subject. "I can't believe I'm finally human again! You know, until I met you, I almost kinda didn't think it would ever happen?" 

As he continued to speak, he was examining himself -- running hands thoughtfully over his own flesh and his hair and stretching out in every direction. Heero watched this process with great satisfaction. "I thought for sure I'd just go crazy eventually and turn into one of those horror movie dolls that convinces the little girl to kill a bunch of people, and when they found out about me they wouldn't be able to destroy me, so they'd throw me away, and I'd end up in a landfill somewhere ruling over a pack of junkyard dogs and referring to myself with the royal 'we.'" 

Heero wasn't sure whether to laugh or wince, and definitely didn't know what to say. But Duo looked at him again suddenly, and he was smiling. "But now..." It wasn't the false cheer he'd often used before to put a good face on his bad situation, that phony brightness Heero had so hated -- this was _real_. It was a smile unforced, a natural tone, an expression of genuine happiness. "Now..." He reached out to run fingertips through Heero's hair. Then, unexpectedly, he slid suddenly off the bed and stood. "Now I'm going to see what's on your bookshelf!" And, with a joyful and triumphant laugh, half stumbling, he ran out of the room.


	142. Plastic Part 91

Duo didn't really need much convincing that a shower was the night's best next step when he knew Heero would be joining him. For one thing, it was a perfectly acceptable location in which to tease Heero about Animorphs and Goosebumps, which had been a long time coming (for all he hadn't expected it to take place in that particular venue). 

For another, he had a certain soreness in his lower half that, while he didn't at all in any way even the tiniest bit _mind_, needed some getting used to; standing relatively still in hot water for a time before he did anything else was perfectly welcome. 

For a third thing, it meant a chance to wash his hair, which Duo let Heero help him with because Heero so obviously wanted to. Heero's hands working through its length, unraveling the braid and combing out the long strands with his fingers, then moving up to massage Duo's scalp and rub shampoo downward, was an absolutely wonderful sensation Duo would probably never forget... but, honestly, just the action of hair-washing, no matter who was doing most of the work, was enough to bring him to tears that were quickly rinsed away by the running water. 

He thought about asking Heero to elaborate on what he'd been doing in the shower with Duo right outside the door on prior occasions, but decided to save that for another time; no reason to be wasteful, after all. 

The open air chilly against wet flesh, the roughness of towels -- not to mention Heero's hands rubbing him down with the latter and the reversed sensations as Duo did the same for him -- were all divine, and so were Heero's damp lips that found Duo's at some point during the hair-wringing process and did not let go for some while. 

When Duo would have left the bedroom naked a second time, Heero pulled him back. After kissing him again quite thoroughly he said, "Let's see if my pajamas fit you." 

"OK," said Duo jovially, but couldn't help adding, "Why?" 

"I can tell you want to go explore," Heero replied with a smile. "But if you wander around like that, you're going to find yourself right back in here pretty quick." 

Duo shivered and grinned. "I'd never have thought you were so horny, Heero." 

"For you, yes." 

"What have I gotten myself into??" 

Heero laughed and hugged him. 

It turned out that Heero's spare pajama pants were a bit short on Duo, but they were nonetheless comfortable, and there was something so sexy about wearing them that Duo thought he wouldn't have noticed even if they hadn't been. Once he had one of Heero's soft old t-shirts on as well, he spun around the room in glee and fell down. As Heero helped him to his feet Duo remarked, "Now I smell like you!" 

"Since I haven't worn those since I last washed them, I doubt it." Pulling Duo close and inhaling near his neck Heero added in a pleased murmur, "No, you definitely smell like you." 

"And what does _that_ smell like?" Duo was flirting, of course, but it had been so long since he'd had a scent, or the ability to discern scents, that he also genuinely wanted to know. 

Heero's intense response, "_My Duo_," didn't really answer the question, but Duo was more than happy to accept it anyway. 

Duo hoped that Heero wasn't hurt or offended at the strength of his desire to explore the apartment as a human. He also wanted to touch and taste and smell Heero for the rest of all eternity, and only the awareness that he and Heero had already done plenty of that tonight, and could do more later -- whereas he'd barely gotten started on the other goal -- sent him out of the room at all... and he hoped Heero didn't take it personally. 

The first thing that attracted Duo's attention outside of the bedroom was Trowa's door, and it was with a pang of guilt that he realized he hadn't even wondered what had become of his friend since he'd left him in the living room earlier. But as he moved toward the door, Heero stopped him. "Now's probably not the best time." 

"But I want to see how he turned out! If his eyes are all fixed and stuff!" 

"Yes, but he and Quatre must have gone in there together when the curse was broken..." 

"Well, I want to see Quatre too!" 

"Duo, what have _we_ been doing since the curse was broken?" 

"Oh!" Duo's smile widened into a grin, then a laugh. "Oh, OK." Then he turned away from the door and regarded the rest of the apartment with greedy eyes. 

There was nothing he did not get his hands on that night. He felt the texture of the painted walls; turned light-switches on and off in every room because he could; sat in the computer chair long enough to pick out a hypothetical message on the keyboard ("happy human day heero"); pulled some of the books down, mostly just so he could continue teasing Heero about being embarrassed about them; bounced on the guest bed until he fell off on the floor; made out with Heero on the floor for a minute; embraced the TV and assured it that it would always have a special place in his heart and they could still be friends (in the process almost knocking it off its stand, for which he apologized to it heartily); ostentatiously adjusted the lamp on the end table where he used to sit, and turned it on and off; picked up his invitation to Relena's wedding and, hugging it tightly to his chest, engaged it in a brief, clumsy waltz (he was getting the hang of walking again, but waltzing was still definitely beyond him); sat down on the couch, bounced a few times, stood up, and pulled Heero back down onto it with him; tested its horizontal amenities with Heero for a few minutes; opened every single drawer and cupboard in the kitchen and rifled through them, twanging the silverware and clinking the glasses; messed around with Heero for several minutes against the stove; and abruptly remembered food. 

"Oh, my god," he whispered as his eyes, widening, fell on the fridge and his brain recalled what it was and what lay within. He'd come across edible things in the cupboards, of course, but somehow hadn't really seen them as anything more than objects to be picked up in celebration of the fact that he could once again pick up objects. But all of a sudden he was conscious of a sensation in his stomach and throat -- god, he had a _stomach and throat_ \-- that he hadn't felt in so long he'd almost forgotten what it signified. 

He turned abruptly to Heero again. "Heero!" he hissed. "I'm _hungry_." 

Heero had several times tonight given him the world's most beautiful smile, one that expressed unequivocal happiness in Duo's current state and in Duo's own happiness, and he gave it again now. 

"I'm fucking hungry," Duo reiterated with a grin. 

"I made extra pasta salad just for you, you know. I hope the crunchy vegetables haven't gone soggy by now; it's not as good as leftovers." 

Duo hugged him tightly, momentarily unable to find words to tell him that soggy vegetables prepared by Heero especially for him sounded like the greatest food ever made, then attacked the refrigerator. Before he could get at the pasta salad, however, he had to examine pretty much everything else in the fridge and freezer: pick it all up, revel in the feeling of coldness his fingers could finally minutely discern again -- god, he had _fingers_ \-- and open just about everything and sniff at it. His mouth was watering, and he thought he was feeling a little sick to his stomach (he couldn't be 100% certain at this point) by the time he finally got to the rectangular Tupperware that held the pasta salad. _His_ pasta salad. The pasta salad made particularly for him by his wonderful boyfriend, who knew what this would mean to him. 

He pried off the lid and stared at the noodles and bits of shrimp and vegetables, and inhaled deeply. He thought he was going to cry. 

Turning slowly, he found Heero holding out a plate with that same smile again. "It's your first meal in eighty-seven years," he said. "You should do it right." 

"That would be easier if you had a dining table." 

"Great... are you going to start that too?" 

"Yes!" 

Heero leaned forward across what each of them was holding and gave Duo a brief kiss, then took the pasta salad from his hand and turned with it toward the counter and the drawer that held the silverware. Soon he had a full plate, accompanied by knife and fork, ready for Duo's use. 

Duo approached with great ceremony and took up the implements. He gave Heero a very grave look, then, slowly and _just_ a little clumsily, as he hadn't done it in so long, scooped and lifted a forkful. 

The sensation was so sharp and overwhelming -- suddenly, surprisingly so -- that he actually made a startled noise through his full mouth, and so strong in contrast to all those years of nothing that the mere ability to taste food was entirely negating, for the moment, the ability to discern flavor. He had no idea what this tasted like, only that it _tasted_. And, though he'd never actually thought about the actions of chewing and swallowing, nor thought he specifically missed them, he found now, as he went about them, that tears were again running down his face. 

"I think that's the first time my pasta salad has made someone cry," Heero murmured. 

Duo wiped his face with the back of one hand and took another bite. 

The sauce was somehow tangy and buttery at the same time, the pasta was mild, the shrimp was pleasantly firm, and the vegetables (which, he would have to reassure Heero later, had retained a marvelous crispness) were an excellent, somewhat bitter contrast to the rest. "This is amazing," Duo mumbled through his third or fourth mouthful. 

Heero laughed and thanked him; but after a moment he added in some concern, "You'll make yourself sick if you don't slow down." 

"Uh-uh," Duo replied, and kept shoveling it in. 

Heero was right, though. Duo had barely finished the contents of the plate, and was attempting to wash it down with a glass of water that Heero had poured for him, when it all came up again. His abused stomach gave a painful heave and him no chance to aim responsibly, and he lost the too-hastily-consumed meal onto the floor at random. 

Vomiting, he noted, felt just as horrible, tasted just as nasty, and resulted in just as disgusting a mess as it ever had... which was why it was really quite strange that he'd almost kindof enjoyed it. Stomach still a little sore and throat burning, he turned guilty eyes up toward Heero, who had stepped away. 

"You told me so," Duo said. 

"I did," Heero agreed, mostly stifling a rueful grin and beginning to pick his way around the disaster. "Come on," he said, taking Duo by the arm. "You'll have to go a little easier on breakfast tomorrow." And he led him down the hall. 

"I'm sorry," Duo said. "All over the kitchen..." 

"Seems pretty natural to me." Heero took Duo into the bathroom, where he began rummaging through drawers. "I'm sure I have a..." He stood straight again, holding up a toothbrush two-pack with one remaining brush. Facetiously he finished, "I assume you know how to use this?" 

Duo accepted the offer and answered in a mock huff, "We _had_ toothbrushes, thank you very much." 

"Good." Heero then pointed out the toothpaste and added, "I'll go clean up the kitchen." 

"I'm not sure how long I'm going to survive," Duo told him loudly as he left the room, "before I die of how nice you are." 

"Would you prefer me to be mean?" Heero called back. 

Duo would have answered, but was too distracted by the toothpaste. It looked much the same as the Pepsodent and Ipana he remembered -- just a greyish-white sort of cream stuff -- but it smelled better, and, once he got it into his mouth, _definitely_ proved to taste better than what they'd used back then. And, good god, he had _teeth_. He could rub the brush all over them at different angles, get all their different sides, feel the slight burn of the toothpaste on his gums -- he had _gums!_ \-- and even feel a bit of a gag reflex when he pushed the brush too far toward the back of his mouth. 

So engrossed was he in this process that when he noticed Heero standing in the doorway watching him with evident amusement, he couldn't be sure he hadn't been there for quite a while. Whether he had or not, it was a good reminder to Duo that, fantastic as his teeth were, he had plenty of time ahead of him to enjoy them and there was really no need to spend any more on them right now. 

Once he was all rinsed and finished, he placed the toothbrush (with more than a little thrill) in the cup that held Heero's, then turned. "All clean!" he announced. 

Heero made a businesslike gesture. "Let's see." And, pulling Duo close, he kissed him exploringly. When he drew away at last, he gave a satisfied nod. "Now you taste like toothpaste." 

Duo grinned. "OK, there's one more thing I want to see." 

This quickly turned out to be a lie, or at least an understatement: there were, in fact, about a million more things Duo wanted to see. Granted, some of these were things he'd already seen, just from different angles; but in any case Heero accompanied him throughout with the same look of patient amusement on his face (though as time passed this was more and more frequently split by yawns) as Duo went over everything in the apartment with continual excitement, much of it for the second time. 

It was coming up on four in the morning when Duo became aware of a new sensation, another feeling he hadn't experienced in eighty-seven years and almost didn't recognize at first. When he did, he was nearly brought to tears again. Instead, abandoning his inspection of the bowl Heero had taken Quatre's dog water in last Thursday, he turned once more to his companion, gripping his arm and grinning somewhat manically at him as he announced, "Heero, I'm tired!" 

"Are you really? Finally?" Heero asked, also grinning. "I was starting to think you were going to end up staying up all night." 

"I probably would have, if I hadn't had so much excitement." But now all of a sudden Duo was thinking about curling up with Heero in bed, having him so warm and close by as he'd longed to for so many nights, and sleeping... _sleeping_... "Let's go to bed," he suggested, and it came out in a whisper that was yet deeply enthusiastic. 

Smiling warmly, Heero moved to turn off the light in the kitchen. "Good idea." Then he took Duo's hand, and they headed down the hall back toward the bedroom. 

There were still a huge number of experiences to be had, but Duo would get to them later. In fact, sleep, rather than an interruption of his pursuits, was simply another thing on the list -- and not a small one, either. That he would have Heero by his side for his first night's sleep in almost a century -- something he certainly had not expected up until just a few hours ago -- made everything that much closer to perfect. And it hadn't been that far from it to begin with.


	143. Plastic Part 92

Trowa hadn't slept a minute last night, not even after Quatre had completely worn him out and gone to sleep himself with arms clasping Trowa possessively. Circumstances were simply too agitating. 

After eighty-seven years, he had forgotten what it was like not to be cursed, and he'd rather anticipated general sensations more distinctly different than they'd turned out to be. But he felt essentially the same as he had yesterday, and, though he didn't really mind, the _lack_ of difference was disconcerting. It wasn't what he'd expected. He wondered how Duo, who had changed a good deal more, was feeling. 

It was the thought of Duo, primarily, that had kept him awake. He understood why Quatre had dragged him out of there last night, but still he was dying to see his friend. He wouldn't _really_ feel that the curse was broken until he did. 

Quatre had pulled himself wearily out of bed early this morning and gone over to his own house to shower and change, then come back here to give Trowa a rather frustrated kiss and a longing look before leaving through Heero's apartment for the airport. Trowa had promised to attempt to jump to him this afternoon and spare him the flight home. 

And now, agonizing hours later, Trowa was sitting around idly surfing the internet and wondering whether or not it was still too early to go to Heero's apartment. Someone that woke Duo from his first sleep in ninety years would probably meet with a violent death, but Trowa was just so desperate to see him... He had no idea what Heero and Duo might be doing if they _did_ happen to be awake, though he doubted they would appreciate its being interrupted, whatever it was... but he wanted to see him... And Duo had the whole world to experience now he was human again... but Trowa still wanted... 

There came a knock at the front door, and at its emphatic sound Trowa was instantly out of his chair and the room. It seemed he'd barely gotten the door unlocked, with hands that felt clumsy and slow, when Duo was hugging him. But 'hugging' wasn't the right word. 'Crushing all the air out of, throwing completely off-balance, half-deafening, and inspiring tears in' would have been a better description. 

"Trowa!" Duo was shouting. "Trowa, look at us! I can hug you for real now! It worked! Check it out, I'm crying again! Your skin's back to normal! Oh, let me see your eyes!" As Duo abruptly pulled away, his jerky movement almost toppled both of them, and he laughed. "Sorry, I'm still a little-- oh, my god, look at your eyes... they're back to normal..." And he flung his arms around Trowa again, and again sent them both staggering a few steps -- this time right into the clock, which gave off a not-unpleasant jangling sound as its weights were rattled. Duo laughed again. "It worked. Oh, my god, it worked." 

Trowa just tried to hold onto him, the tears pouring down his own face once more, overwhelmed by the final, certain knowledge that it was really over; the curse was really broken; Duo, human and healed and happy, was here holding him. He'd forgiven Trowa for what had happened so long ago, and it was all behind them now. _It was over._

Duo finally calmed and quieted enough to ask in a more level tone, "So how are you feeling? Everything's OK now, right?" 

Nodding as Duo finally released him and looked at him with a more serious, critical eye, Trowa wiped tears away and said, "Yes, everything's fine. More than fine. How are you?" 

"I still sometimes fall over," Duo admitted, though he was grinning as he said it, "and there's other parts of having a human body that I've totally forgotten... but I'll figure it all out. I'm just so glad to see you like this!" 

Again Trowa nodded, and this time he smiled as well. And then, as Duo began poking around the entry with eager curiosity, Trowa noticed Heero standing in the open door looking rather stiff. He'd never been in here, after all; Trowa couldn't help thinking back with some interest to when he'd had Heero in mind when he'd linked the door, only to find Quatre taking advantage of it instead. How differently than he'd expected everything had worked out! 

"Come in, Heero," he said, smiling at him too, "and close the door." 

Heero obeyed, and immediately Trowa went to him, reaching out to clasp Heero's hand and shake it with both of his own. He hoped -- indeed, he suspected -- that Heero would understand how meaningful such a physical gesture was from Trowa, even more than his statement, "Thank you." 

"You're welcome," Heero said quietly. He looked distinctly apologetic, and Trowa thought they reached an understanding in that moment without words: they could forget everything that had passed and become friends. They knew very little of each other, but they cared about the same people, and that was definitely enough for a start. 

Trowa drew back and said, a little hesitantly, "So, you two..." 

Heero nodded. Although this was all the confirmation Trowa needed, Duo also answered the half-formed question. He came bounding from where he'd progressed some distance into the computer room, and ran into Heero, flinging arms around his neck apparently as much to stop and steady himself as to hug him. "Heero and I are _lovarz_," he announced. "L-O-V- A-R-Z- Z-Z-Z." And he kissed Heero on the cheek. 

Heero blushed, but all he said was, "I don't think you need quite that many Z's." 

Duo nuzzled his face into Heero's neck. "You deserve _all_ the Z's." 

Trowa smiled. 

"So-- so-- so--" Duo pulled away abruptly from Heero and turned toward Trowa again. "You and Quatre! I heard that rumor!" 

"Yes," Trowa replied; it was his turn to blush. 

"That is so great," Duo said heartily. He launched himself from Heero to Trowa, and hugged the latter again. "I'm so glad. I was thinking all along that you guys are perfect for each other. But why didn't you tell me?" 

Trowa wasn't exactly comfortable explaining in front of Heero, who still rather felt like a stranger to him, but neither did he want to refuse Duo anything. So he forced himself to say, "I'm sorry. I wanted to, but... I felt like I was... letting you down by allowing myself to be distracted." 

Duo had released him and stood back, but, on hearing this, hugged him again tightly. "Oh, Trowa," he said. "I'm so sorry you felt like that. Because I was hoping all along that you and Quatre would get together. And not just because he fits our number pattern!" 

Trowa smiled, simultaneously amused at the comment and glad of the subject shift. "He does, doesn't he?" 

"Yes! So the only odd one out is Heero, unless rhyming with 'zero' counts." 

Heero shrugged. "If you squint, you could believe my name is a reference to a Japanese word for 'one person.'" 

"Oh, really?" Duo sounded very interested. "But what is it actually supposed to be? I mean, if you don't squint?" 

"The kanji for my name actually mean a bright red color, like blood." 

"I don't know what kanji is, but that's sexy as hell." 

Heero looked pleased. 

After this, Duo detached himself from his lovar and resumed his foray through Trowa's house. "Quatre told me about how crazy this place is," he said eagerly, "and I've been dying to see it. This is the _same_ Victrola, isn't it?" 

Trowa, following him, confirmed this guess. 

"Wow, and some of these have got to be the same records from back then, too!" Duo didn't sound entirely certain, though, and no wonder: Trowa had only bought the machine and started collecting records a few months before the curse. Duo was right again, though, and Trowa said so. Then he helped get a record playing, and stood back to watch as Duo examined everything else in the room to the sound of Phil Napoleon. This exploration seemed to be half out of curiosity, and half to satisfy a desire to pick up and touch as many things as he could. Trowa looked on with a growing sense of joy and relief, and found that, even when the memories Duo called up in exclaiming over his possessions were bittersweet, the bitterness faded first. 

When Duo was finished with the computer room and its contents, he bounced across to the study and kept at it there. And as they followed him, Heero remarked in quiet amusement, "He spent most of the night doing this at my place." 

"We'll have to take him to Quatre's next." 

"Through your front door?" 

Trowa nodded, a gesture Heero mimicked slightly as if this had confirmed a guess. 

Then from Duo, who had found his way over to the work table, came the interested call, "Hey, Trowa..." 

Glancing in that direction, Trowa knew immediately what Duo wanted. "Yes," he said, moving to where Duo stood, "that's it." 

Duo was frowning down at the artifact. One hand moved briefly, as if he were about to reach out and touch it or pick it up, but fell back before it had lifted more than a few inches. "What are you going to do with it?" 

"Destroy it, as soon as I know there's nothing more I specifically need it for." 

Duo nodded thoughtfully, then slowly turned away, putting his back to the artifact in what seemed a deliberate gesture. Trowa wasn't surprised to see him give no real indication that this was the object that had made his life so excessively long and difficult... though he also wouldn't have been terribly surprised if Duo had spared it a middle finger or two before leaving it behind him. 

Heero had drawn closer to where they stood, and now joined Trowa in looking down at the table. "A candlestick?" he said, somewhat blankly. At Trowa's nod he went on, "I would have expected..." But he trailed off and shook his head with a shrug. 

"Something that seemed more magical?" Trowa finished for him, smiling slightly. "That's what Quatre said." 

"Wow, Trois, where did you get this chair? _Why_ did you get this chair?" Duo had flopped down into the article in question, and was now bouncing slightly and laughing. "This is the ugliest thing I've ever seen!" 

"Quatre said that too," Trowa admitted. 

"It's a pretty awesome ugly, though. And it's really comfy! Heero, you should get a chair like this." 

For a moment Trowa, blushing faintly, imagined that Duo was aware of what he'd done with Quatre in that chair, and that there was more than one layer to this suggestion to Heero -- but he got hold of himself and said nothing. Heero just made a disdainful noise to let Duo know what he thought of the proposal. 

In an impulsive movement, Duo rose and hugged Trowa. "I can sit in chairs again!" he exulted. 

Trowa would have pointed out that, technically, Duo had always been able to sit in chairs... if he weren't still, out of residual guilt and a desire not to injure Duo further, reluctant to tease his friend. Duo was closer today to treating Trowa the way he used to than he had been since they'd reunited -- but it still wasn't quite the same, and Trowa doubted it ever would be again. The curse was broken and forgiven, but it could not be so easily forgotten. He could not expect a relationship like what they'd had; he wondered what he _could_ expect. 

"Technically, you always could," said Heero, earning himself a stuck-out tongue from Duo and a startled look from Trowa. But after the initial surprise, all the statement really did was remind Trowa that, while Duo might not have the same closeness with his old friend that he'd once had, he wasn't alone. Neither of them was alone, nor even unhappy; time and circumstances were on their side. But even if their friendship never did completely mend, and even if it stung a little to think of someone else closer to and easier with Duo than he was, he was glad Duo had been able to find someone like that. 

So, although he wasn't _perfectly_ content, although he still had a long road to travel before everything would be right again, he felt he had all he could ask for in this -- indeed, more than he would have thought to ask for -- and that he could continue to celebrate, with his friends, the end of a long era of sorrow.


	144. Plastic Part 93

It had been an effort like none he could remember for Quatre to keep his mind on work today. Like a strong spring snapping back into place, it wanted to retract from the task of giving half the staff clearance reapproval, and the tedious ins and outs of system organization, to the exponentially more interesting topic of his friends whose curse was at last broken. 

Of course he'd hurried Trowa out of Heero's apartment last night -- it really had been the only option at the time -- then done his best to distract him so he wouldn't be tempted to wander back in there before it was appropriate to do so... but that didn't mean Quatre himself wasn't burning up with curiosity and the wish to see and congratulate Duo (though he knew full well that his desire could only ever hope to be a fraction as strong as Trowa's was). He flattered himself that Duo would be pleased to see him too, and, besides, that Duo was certain to be glad of congratulations from anyone offering them. It would surely be an interesting meeting. 

Heero too was in need of congratulating, since things had evidently finally gone his way. Quatre was very glad of it, though he would be glad of a little more confirmation than just the kiss he'd impartially witnessed last night. He hoped they would be happy together. He thought they would be good for each other. 

And besides all of this, of course, there was also the very simple fact that he wasn't yet done admiring un-cursed and still-alive Trowa. He'd made a fairly extensive exploration of him last night (which was why he'd needed an unusually great amount of caffeine this morning), but it was going to take a while before he was really satisfied. The long and short of it was that he didn't want to be here. 

Fortunately, he had this recovering-from-a-system-failure thing down to a sort of science, and could usually make a fairly accurate estimate beforehand of how long he would need to spend and what time he could reasonably expect to be able to leave. Today's prediction was 4:00, and, though he had purchased a plane ticket for 5:55, he'd also requested that Trowa attempt to jump to him in the hopes that he would not have to return to the airport at all. 

If 4:15 arrived without bringing Trowa, Quatre was to assume he wasn't yet capable of using Quatre as a destination, and call his cab as usual. He hoped Trowa would succeed, though, for more reasons than one: of course it would be much quicker and more convenient, eat up less of his evening pointlessly than the flight, and thereby give him more time to talk to Trowa and Duo and admire their state of humanity... but he also hoped for success because of what it would say about his relationship with Trowa -- a statement that would be pleasing to him and, he hoped, specifically affirming to Trowa. 

So at 4:00 he let himself into an empty conference room and stood quietly waiting in the dark, fingers (at least mentally) crossed. And he was more pleased even than he'd expected when Trowa arrived. 

He appeared quite close to Quatre, though the angle of his body prevented more than about half-contact. This Quatre immediately rectified, however, by pulling Trowa fully against him and reaching up to kiss him leisurely. 

"You did it!" he said when he withdrew. "It worked!" 

Trowa smiled at him. Though this had been less infrequent of late than when they'd first met, it still made Quatre's pulse quicken slightly. He had a feeling it always would. "Yes," said Trowa. "It was easier than I thought." 

Quatre also smiled, broadly. "Does it help that I was wishing for you?" 

"Maybe." Without any great or easily discernible alteration of expression, Trowa looked pleased. 

Quatre rose up on tip-toe to aim a kiss at a freckle on Trowa's temple. "I don't think I got them all last night," he said thoughtfully. He would have gone on, but an irresistible yawn came out instead. 

Trowa caught it and yawned as well. "I'll tell you what you didn't get last night..." 

Quatre chuckled. "Wow, the curse breaking really _has_ changed things if _you're_ talking to _me_ about not getting enough sleep." 

"If you want your turn," Trowa replied gravely, "I'll tell you: _I_ didn't sleep _at all_ last night." 

"Trowa! You didn't go sneaking over there bothering Heero and Duo!" 

"No, I just thought about it all night. But they came over and spent several hours at my house today. Actually, they just left when I said I needed to pick you up. They invited us over for dinner; I hope you don't mind I accepted on your behalf, if we could manage to get you there in time." 

Quatre grinned. "No, not at all. I'll be happy to see Duo eating, I'm sure. And then you and I can go to bed early, and if it's early enough we won't even have to go straight to sleep." 

Again Trowa looked pleased. "This sounds like a perfect evening, then." And he reached down and clasped Quatre around the waist in order to make the jump. 

A further report from Trowa indicated that the others had gone shopping -- first, to get some dinner components Heero needed; second, to find some shoes for Duo, who was apparently having trouble fitting into Heero's; third, because Duo, who said he felt like a long-time shut-in, just really wanted to. So Quatre had time to admire Trowa's freckles and natural green eyes for a while. 

The wanderers' return was heralded by an energetic knocking on Trowa's door that Quatre assumed, just based on its sound, could only be coming from the hand of Duo -- and so it proved. Quatre opened the door and found himself facing someone whose face he'd never before seen, but who was very familiar. 

"Quatre!" Duo flung himself enthusiastically at him for a hug that crushed the breath right out of him. "Hi!!" 

"Hi, Duo!" Quatre laughed as soon as he was able. "You're looking good!" 

Duo made a long, pleased affirmative noise like a sort of small yell, and finally drew back. Studying his pleasant features, which now held every bit of expressiveness they'd so conspicuously lacked before, Quatre could do nothing but widen his own grin. 

In a tone that was much like that of a father conducting a suspicious examination of his child's first date, "So I hear you've got this thing going with my best friend," Duo said. 

"Well, what about you and mine?" Quatre countered. 

Duo gave him a transported look and sighed dreamily. "We're _wonderful_," he breathed. It was so very overdone that Quatre had to laugh. Then Duo went on in a more matter-of-fact tone, "He bought me shoes! See?" And pointed down at his feet like a proud child with a new toy. 

When Quatre had admired these appropriately, Duo dragged him through Trowa's door into Heero's apartment so as to involve Heero in the conversation too. Quatre got the feeling that Duo didn't much like being separated from Heero, even only by a few yards. It made sense, he supposed -- Duo had gotten used to being within five feet of Heero at all times, and there was probably still a lingering, irrational fear of what might happen if they were too long apart. Knowing that Heero appreciated just a little bit of clinginess, Quatre couldn't help thinking this could only be a herald of good things. 

Trowa, who had slipped past them through his entryway, was already in Heero's kitchen, and Quatre was pleased to see him taking instructions from Heero as he had last night. For those two to get to know each other, become better friends, was one of Quatre's dearest wishes at the moment. 

Remembering something else from last night, "So, Heero," Quatre said, advancing to the edge of the linoleum, "when _are_ you going to start learning how to cast spells?" 

Heero glanced over at him. He was well aware that he was being teased, but his answer was just a calm shrug. 

Quatre turned to Duo. "You don't know how embarrassed he was when you told him _you'd_ been the one to awaken his magical potential." 

Duo's eyes seemed to spark. "Really?" 

"Probably not as embarrassed as _I_ was," Quatre went on, just to make things fair, "when I thought Trowa might be able to read my mind, though." 

"Quatre! Were you having dirty thoughts?" Duo demanded, stifling a grin in favor of a not-very-successful attempt at a stern expression. 

"The worst part of it was that I still thought he was with _you_ at the time." Quatre didn't mind laughing, nor relating the details of that particular instance for Duo's amusement. 

The rest of the night went very much like this; there were myriad little moments, misinterpreted statements, and utterly missed cues to be explained on most sides, and a lot of blushing and laughter. And while complete honesty on all topics was not yet possible, they mostly managed without real awkwardness or unhappiness. Duo's joy at being human again, which apparently could not be expressed too frequently, served to smooth over anything that threatened to become truly uncomfortable, and in general the group dynamic was good. 

And it was unexpectedly gratifying, when the little party broke up, to feel that everyone knew where everyone else stood -- and was going at the moment! -- and approved. To see a smile on every face -- even Trowa's -- as they said their goodnights; to see Heero take Duo's hand when he thought no one was looking; to walk with Trowa back into his house secure in the knowledge that everything had turned out right after all... Quatre didn't think he'd ever been happier.


	145. Plastic Part 94

When Heero's alarm sounded on Wednesday morning, his first response, as was frequently the case, was to hit the snooze button. But as he struggled into wakefulness and felt the warmth at his side, it occurred to him that the sleeping Duo didn't really need to hear the buzzer go off as many times as was often required to get Heero out of bed. So he made an effort, forced his eyes to stay open, sat up, and turned off the alarm entirely. 

Duo shifted and abruptly threw an arm around Heero's waist. "Nooooo," he groaned. Smiling, Heero bent and hugged him, somewhat awkwardly because of how they were arranged, and found himself looking into sleepy half-lidded eyes. "You hafta stay within five feet of me," Duo muttered tiredly. 

Heero kissed his cheek. "After work I will." And, really, at the moment, he wanted nothing in the world more than just to sink down into Duo's embrace and go back to sleep at his side... but he seriously couldn't afford to miss more work. 

Not without a noise of protest, Duo allowed Heero to extricate himself from limb and bedding, then curled up on his side hugging Heero's pillow. Heero smiled down at him for a moment, then turned away to get ready. 

Last night before they'd gone to bed (or what passed as going to bed in a new relationship), they'd discussed today and made arrangements for anything Duo was likely to want to do while Heero was at work. All of Heero's pants were a little short on Duo, but his shorts functioned perfectly well, so clothing was not a problem now that they'd found Duo some tennis shoes that fit. Duo had made several suggestive comments about wearing Heero's clothes, to which Heero had finally been in a good position to respond properly. 

Heero had given him the last spare key to the apartment in case (as he had no doubt) Duo wanted to go wandering; Heero had also given him his cell phone number in case (as he had little less doubt) he then got lost and needed to figure out where he was. He wished he had a cell phone to give him as well, but it was nothing odd that he didn't have a spare one of those lying around. 

All the cash currently in his possession had gone over to Duo too, and this for some reason had rendered Duo somewhat misty-eyed. Heero was getting used to (and, indeed, rather enjoying) Duo tearing up over random things, and had watched in pleasure and amusement as Duo painstakingly identified the various pieces of currency and added up the total with intense satisfaction. It was the first money to be in his possession in a very long time, and he'd had interesting comments to make about the size and the designs. 

After all of this, and a lot of accompanying and rather silly discussion of what Duo could and could not (or, rather, probably _should_ not) do within the apartment, Heero was not concerned about Duo's ability to keep himself entertained all day without having to resort to television; but he still didn't want to leave him. He was looking down at him again now as he did up his tie, noting that Duo seemed to have gone back to sleep in earnest and unclenched somewhat from his possessive curl around the pillow, and he found that the wish to crawl back into bed with him and hold him until they both woke up at their leisure -- as they had yesterday -- had not diminished. 

It wasn't just that it was early and bed was comfortable; Heero found he simply didn't want to go through an entire day without Duo at his side. He'd known he was attached to having Duo close by at all times, but he hadn't realized how much it was going to bother him when that was no longer the case. Once he had his jacket on and was essentially ready to leave, he found himself still standing silently staring down, unwilling to move. Finally, though, sluggishly, he shook himself, and bent to kiss Duo's cheek once more before heading out. 

It proved, as he really should have anticipated, the most unproductive work-day he'd ever experienced. None of the previous distractions -- checking on a magical message board at frequent intervals, pondering whether the doll on his end table might really be a cursed human, mulling over Duo's relationship with Trowa and his own feelings on the matter -- none of it had been anywhere near this bad. 

Between wondering what Duo was up to, wishing Duo were here or that he were at home with Duo, forgetting that Duo was _not_ here and turning to say something to him and finding the desk empty, and the thought of Duo's human limbs and skin and face and his warmth and the signs of attachment he'd given and their future together, it would be nothing short of a miracle, Heero thought, if he came out of the day with one single item of legitimate business completed. 

Dorothy, rather than chiding him, merely rolled her eyes with one of her knowing smiles -- and although the latter did look rather condescending, Dorothy's smiles always did, and she didn't seem upset with him. On the contrary, she seemed deliberately to be trying to draw off their co-workers' questions to herself, as far as she could, so as to leave Heero in relative peace. He wondered what she thought was going on. 

The distraction, oddly enough, actually made it easier to put up with Wufei. Indeed, the latter had been going on about something in a comic book -- apparently there was a movie coming out? and it was destined to suck? or something? -- for several minutes before Heero even realized he was speaking. Glancing at his computer clock, he was startled to see that it was almost lunch time. Had he really made it all the way through half the day already? He was doing better than he'd thought. He wished Duo were here. 

But wait. He could _go home_ for lunch. Quatre had been making the trip to Heero's apartment during lunch for a while, hadn't he? There wouldn't be a huge amount of time, given how long the drive would take, but he could go home and see Duo before tackling the rest of the day. 

So exciting was this thought that he almost got up right then and there and headed out to his car; but he forced himself instead to remain in his seat and continue making noises at Wufei as if he was listening -- something about someone's weakness being the color yellow? no, he couldn't really have just heard that -- and wait out the last quarter hour or so before he could go to lunch with impunity. 

With two minutes left on the clock and Wufei having expanded into the territory of the failures of comic book movies in general, Heero's cell phone unexpectedly rang. It was an unfamiliar local number, and he was tempted to ignore it entirely, but the awareness that it could possibly be Duo prompted his hand rather to dart for the device more quickly than he would have moved if it had been a caller he recognized. 

"Hello?" he said a little breathlessly, interrupting and thus silencing Wufei. 

"Heero, I figured out the phone all by myself!" 

Heero could not have predicted the flood of joy and the increase in heart rate he would experience at hearing Duo's voice after so many hours apart. Was this how a parent felt after a child's very first day at school? No, that was creepy. He had no proper analogy. It felt wonderful; that was all. 

"Was it difficult?" he answered Duo's cheerful statement. 

"Nope. I just pushed the numbers and it went right through. This is my first phone call! As a human, I mean." 

"You never talked on the phone at all before?" Heero wondered. "Didn't they have them back then?" In glancing around, he found Wufei still there, giving him a strange and, in fact, perhaps somewhat worried look -- whether in response to his odd words or the unusual joy in his face and tone, Heero could not guess and did not care. He gestured apologetically, locked his computer, and stood. 

"Yeah, rich people did. I think Trowa even had one, after he started being rich. I just never happened to use one. Hey, they're starting to give me weird looks here; I don't think they like people just walking in and asking to use the phone without buying anything." 

"Where are you?" Heero was heading out of the cubicle now, not paying the slightest attention to how Wufei was reacting to all of this. 

"The McDonald's up the street from your apartment. Um, I don't know which street." 

"I bet I know which one it is," Heero grinned. "Stay there, and I'll come meet you." 

Duo gave a very pleased, "Oh!" and followed it up with, "OK! I'll see you in a minute, then." 

So lunch went unexpectedly well. Heero wasn't a big fan of McDonald's, but he hardly noticed what he was eating in the pleasure of seeing Duo enjoying food -- and seeing Duo at all. Plus he got some kisses out of it, which won them some scandalized looks from other customers that Heero was better able to ignore than he would ever have thought he could be. And then he went back to work even more distracted than before. 

And he found that, whatever the provocation -- be it Wufei's incomprehensible talk, Dorothy's condescension, or being forced to make up a reason why he no longer had a doll on his desk and a whole new wave of resultant curiosity from his other co-workers -- with the bolstering memory of that happy lunch with Duo and the evening and night with Duo to look forward to, he could put up with just about anything.


	146. Plastic Part 95

  


"Thank you for not asking if I'm sure I can handle this." 

Seated on his bed beside Trowa, Quatre leaned over and kissed his boyfriend on the cheek. "See? I'm getting better." 

"I didn't think that was possible..." Trowa murmured. 

Quatre grinned. "And _you're_ getting better at flirting." 

Trowa inclined his head gravely. 

"And, as a matter of fact, I _know_ you can handle this. You've proved you _can_ deal with people; you just don't _like_ to." 

"That's mostly true," Trowa admitted. "I really am not very skilled at it, though." 

"Well, practice makes perfect." 

Almost under his breath Trowa said, "Why you would ever want to be perfect at something like that..." 

"My poor Trowa," Quatre laughed, hugging him. "You've gotten pretty good at dealing with _me_, though." 

"You're not 'people.'" 

"Thank you. I think." Quatre glanced at his watch. "It's probably about time. Let's go down." And, standing, he pulled Trowa up after him and gave him another quick kiss before heading for the door. 

They met his mother on the landing. "Oh," she said, "were you up here all along? I didn't even see you come in." Quatre thought she was more surprised at the way Trowa looked, though, than that they'd somehow been in Quatre's room without anyone observing them enter the house. "It's good to see you again, Trowa," she smiled, obviously restraining herself from searching his face curiously. They'd decided to claim that Trowa had just recovered from fairly serious anemia if anyone asked about his newly-healthy coloration, but Quatre anticipated that his parents would be too polite to comment and his nephews wouldn't remember clearly enough to wonder. 

When everyone ate together -- well, even when two thirds of them ate together -- they had to use the larger dining room with its improbably long table and ornate wainscotting. As they entered, Trowa looked around with just the faintest constriction of brows; he'd already expressed to Quatre the feeling he had in certain parts of this house, like nostalgia but not as comfortable, as he was reminded of places he'd sometimes been invited to during that brief part of his life he would most like to forget. But he didn't balk, and was quietly courteous as he was introduced to those he hadn't met yet. As this consisted of six different people, the shaking of hands and friendly greetings made it some time before everyone was seated. 

Dinner conversation around here was always lively and somewhat random, though there was usually an underlying or recurring theme of Winner Plastics since that topic could easily fill any gap. This allowed Trowa to remain silent throughout most of the meal; certain of Quatre's housemates at times sought to include him in the conversation, but, though he answered politely enough, it wasn't difficult to tell that he'd rather listen than talk, so eventually they kindly let him be. Quatre was pleased. He had always thought well of his family, but it was moments like this that made him actively proud. 

He'd been almost certain that this was one of those nights when his parents would want to indulge in an after-dinner brandy in the adjoining parlor -- an old-fashioned habit they'd mostly abandoned but still conveniently revived whenever they had (for example) a new significant other of one of their children to interrogate. He'd warned Trowa earlier of this probability when he'd briefed him on how the evening in general was likely to go, so Trowa was able to acquiesce to the invitation without any apparent surprise or displeasure. 

The routine was nothing unfamiliar to Quatre. Even when he'd been too young to understand what was going on, he'd watched his sisters and the dates they brought home go through this, and he'd experienced it himself a number of times. But he'd never cared quite so much before. This was only in part because he liked Trowa better than he'd liked previous boyfriends; there was also the fact that Trowa had more to fabricate, and felt worse about having to do it, than previous boyfriends. 

And it was still surprising how well he pulled it off. Trowa might believe himself unskilled in dealing with people, but the way he combined (unless Quatre was very much mistaken) actual facts from his own life and plausible circumstances he'd observed over the years into a very believable-sounding history was remarkable, and his solemn and somewhat formal manner could come across as nothing less than trustworthy. 

In response to the various well-oiled questions put to him with utmost innocence, he told the Winners that he'd been born in 1985 in some town in Michigan that might, for all Quatre knew (he would have to ask sometime), be Trowa's actual place of birth. He didn't say much of his childhood, fictional or otherwise, and even in this partially false account seemed reluctant to mention his parents. Tactfully, Mr. and Mrs. Winner did not pursue the issue. Quatre himself, his curiosity aroused, decided that he must sometime see what Duo knew of the matter; that seemed the easiest way to get a general idea without having to ask Trowa what might be painful questions. 

Trowa claimed to have moved to this area after high school to stay with a more distant (and, he implied, much kinder) relative, and ended up attending the same college as Quatre. They'd decided on this beforehand, as it provided a way for them to have first met a little more believable than 'he found me by divination after Heero posted on a message board about the talking doll he picked out of the gutter,' and Quatre could provide any details Trowa needed to flesh out his remarks. 

The story they presented was that they'd known each other casually during school, had recently met again by coincidence, renewed the acquaintance, and after not too long started dating: nothing terribly unusual or exciting. As a sort of distraction tactic, they managed to spin a much more interesting tale out of the account of Trowa's best friend that had led the poor Pacific Division Sales Coordinator around in dizzy circles for over a month before admitting that he liked him. 

Quatre's parents had grown up in an era during which the phrase 'good breeding' had still meant something. Actually, now that he thought about it, that applied to Trowa too, didn't it? At any rate, Mr. and Mrs. Winner the excellent hosts had never been even the least bit unpleasant to any one of Quatre's boyfriends in the past, regardless of their real feelings about them. But Quatre had learned to read the signs, and could usually tell, as brandy/interrogation time was winding down, what their general opinion was of the latest subject. 

He knew Trowa had made a good first impression during their brief introduction, and tonight, to his great satisfaction, he thought he was picking up pleasure and tentative approbation from his parents in response to this longer meeting. They were hesitant anymore, he knew, about immediate approval, since they'd ended up disliking all of his past boyfriends -- even the ones they'd thought well of at first -- so this was the most positive reaction that could be expected of them. And it was enough for Quatre. He was absolutely certain they would come to love Trowa eventually; this was good for a start. 

"Well, Trowa, it's been wonderful getting to talk to you so much tonight," Mrs. Winner was saying politely as they began their slow exodus from the parlor. She was always perfectly friendly, and, though Quatre wasn't overly fond of the way she had of repeating the name of someone she'd recently met in just about every sentence she addressed to them, her poise was flawless. 

"Yes," agreed Mr. Winner, "feel free to come by any time. Though," he added with a smile, "I suspect you already do." 

Trowa favored them with a slight smile of his own. "Thank you for having me," he said. 

Their further goodbyes and goodnights were conducted with the same good will, and the fact that Quatre and Trowa were pretty obviously heading upstairs for Quatre's bedroom did not garner any reaction different than if they'd been walking out the front door. Quatre knew his parents hadn't been nearly so relaxed about the idea of their children's sexual activities -- especially in the house -- back when his first couple of sisters had reached dating age... but, then, that _had_ been in the 70's. There were benefits to being the youngest of ten (not least of which the fact that there had been three lesbians before him to pave the way of understanding and equity). Just as they began climbing the final stretch of the great staircase and were about to put the first floor entirely out of sight, Quatre glanced back and saw his parents still standing together down there looking up after him; he smiled at them. 

As he closed his bedroom door, Trowa beside him let out a long breath and seemed to wilt somewhat, leaning forward against the wall as if exhausted. With a pitying noise that was half a laugh, Quatre took his hand and pulled him over to the bed. 

"You're brilliant," he said, pushing Trowa into a seated position and crawling onto the bed behind him. "And I think they really liked you." Settling down cross-legged, he began to massage Trowa's shoulders and back, trying to release some of the tension that had gathered there during the last hour. 

"I'm glad," Trowa said, sounding a little dull. "But I don't like having to tell so many lies. If it were somebody I'm never going to see again, or somebody I didn't care about, it would be different, but..." He shook his head. 

Though he pitied Trowa, it was difficult for Quatre to feel anything but happiness at this implication from him that the Winners were neither transient nor unimportant; that seemed like a real breakthrough. "We'll tell them the truth eventually," he said reassuringly. "As soon as they realize how wonderful you are and how crazy I am about you." One step at a time, after all; when his parents were already worrying about Quatre in another relationship -- in their minds a fairly significant concern, given the precedent -- they didn't need the added complication that the new boyfriend was a 111-year-old magician and had once cursed his best friend to live as a talking doll for ninety years. 

Trowa half-turned to meet Quatre's eye. He looked simultaneously weary with the entire situation, as if the bulk of human relationships was just too taxing for him to continue thinking about at the moment, and pleased with Quatre's words. "That's good," he said tiredly, "because I won't be able to remember which details I included in this story. I should have made notes." 

Quatre laughed a little, and, taking Trowa's arm, pulled at him as he scrambled backward. "Come here," he said. Trowa obeyed, and soon they were cuddled up comfortably on the pillows, Trowa settling against Quatre with a sigh that sounded far more contented than his previous. 

After a few moments of warm silence during which they just held each other comfortably and drowsed a bit, Trowa said simply and quietly, "I'm crazy about you too." 

Having seen fresh proof in Trowa's willingness to endure such a trying evening full of strangers and cross-examination for his sake, Quatre was already aware of this -- but that didn't mean it didn't make his heart burn beautifully to hear it spoken aloud. He held Trowa more tightly, pressed a kiss to the first spot his lips could find, and smiled against his lover's soft brown hair.


	147. Plastic Part 96

As Heero was preparing to leave for lunch on a Wednesday afternoon the week after the breaking of the curse, he received an email from building security that said only, _Visitor in entry_. Entertained as always by the fact that there was anyone in the company more terse than he was via email, and wondering who the visitor was, Heero gathered his things and made his way down. What was his surprise and delight to find Duo himself waiting in the entry, smiling broadly at the security guard and at Wufei; the latter two appeared to have been talking when Duo entered, and were now unabashedly staring at him without a word. 

"Surprise!" Duo greeted Heero as he approached. 

"How did you get here?" Heero wasted no time leading Duo out the door and away from the stares of his co-workers, though he knew it would be less easy evading the latter's questions later. 

"Quatre helped me figure out the bus system yesterday so I could come surprise you for lunch sometime." 

In the parking lot, not caring who might be looking, Heero kissed Duo intensely for a moment. "It's a wonderful surprise," he said. "What do you want to do for lunch?" 

"Let's go sit in that grocery store parking lot we used to," Duo grinned. 

Heero was even more pleased than he was probably letting on. He wasn't yet accustomed to the idea, perfectly normal though it was, of Duo having conversations entirely outside his hearing and knowledge; but he loved to see Duo developing such autonomy and figuring the world out so efficiently -- not least because the ability to do so made Duo so happy. 

They bought random items at the grocery store, then sat in the parking lot and ate them, reminiscing about the days not long ago when these lunchtimes had caused their levels of hope for such a circumstance as this to fluctuate rather wildly. Then they made out across the gear shift like high-schoolers (which one of them had never been) until it was time for Heero to go back. Past time, rather, but they couldn't bring themselves to move particularly quickly toward parting. 

As they were ambling away from Heero's car in the work parking lot, talking about something inconsequential, Duo broke off whatever he was saying to remark, "Oh, here comes eyebrow lady..." 

Heero looked up to see that Dorothy was indeed approaching across the lot, evidently making straight for them. Fearing some censure regarding his repeated (and today particularly egregious) lateness from lunch, Heero braced himself; but Dorothy came instead to Duo and reached out. 

"Congratulations," she said, sounding surprisingly sincere and invested. 

"Thanks!" Duo grinned, shaking the hand she'd offered. 

She looked him up and down. "It seems to have come off without a hitch." 

"Yeah, everything worked just fine! We were worried for a bit 'cause of something that happened one day near the end, but it turned out not to be anything after all." 

Heero stared from one to another, his brows lowering as he was faced with the only possible meaning of this exchange. Duo, seeing his expression, started to laugh and then abruptly looked thoughtful. "Oh, Heero, didn't... didn't she ever say anything...?" 

"You knew all along?" Heero wondered of Dorothy. 

"It was obvious from the beginning there was some kind of powerful magic about him," she shrugged, gesturing toward Duo. "So I did a few divinations to find out what was going on." Her tone and demeanor clearly indicated that she'd been watching with interest ever since then -- and that she'd been fully aware of Heero's ignorance of her abilities and laughing quietly up her sleeve at him the whole time. 

Heero turned back to his boyfriend. "_You_ could have said something." 

"You know I thought I had?" Duo shrugged, and turned to Dorothy. "So you're a diviner?" 

"Primarily. I've got a little necrovisua and a little command as well." 

"Oooh," said Duo admiringly. "I've always wanted to be necrovisual, but I'm just plain old command." 

"I've only got a little, though," she reiterated with a shrug. "I can't do much more than confirm presences; I refer people who need help to a real exorcist. But are you sure you don't have any? Can you be sure you can't see shades if no shades have ever come near you?" 

"Oh, I'm pretty sure I must have been around some at some point in the last hundred years," Duo laughed. "Besides, I've got no communion or divination, so it'd be cross-circle anyway. I'm awesome, but I don't think I'm _that_ special." 

"How visionary are you?" 

"Just the usual command level." 

As Heero listened to this exchange, he found his surprise and slight annoyance melting away into amusement. He'd never heard Dorothy converse with such interest about anything before, and it occurred to him that nerds came in all shapes and colors. He would have liked to stay and listen longer, but instead broke in somewhat reluctantly, "I'm already late; Dorothy, I'll see you inside." 

"Kiss!" cried Duo, and swooped in to claim one. 

Once his mouth was free, blushing a little, Heero asked him quietly, "You'll be able to get home OK?" 

"Mm-hmm! Those bus stops won't know what hit them!" 

Heero had to grin. "OK. I'll see you later." And he turned away without looking at Dorothy. 

Inside, he made it all the way upstairs before his next encounter. He was traversing the hall that led to the sales floor when he heard the serious greeting, "Heero," in a voice from which he'd rather been expecting it. Turning to face Wufei, he found the dark, determined expression he'd also rather been expecting. Wufei came up to him and stopped, looking into his face with lowered brows. "It's none of my affair whom you're dating and whether or not you're cheating on anyone," he began. And wasn't it just like Wufei to start a conversation by announcing that what he was bringing up was none of his business? 

"Quatre and I were never dating," Heero interjected quickly and smoothly, having been ready with this. 

"So you say. Anyway, I couldn't help but notice that this new person showed up not long after you stopped bringing your Star Trek figure in to work, and what I wanted to know was: _does he know_?" 

"Know what?" 

"Oh, don't play the innocent with me." Wufei waved an imperious hand. "You're going to have to tell him sooner or later that you based your role-playing character off of him. He'll probably find it less creepy if you tell him sooner." 

Heero stood staring somewhat blankly at the glinting light on Wufei's glasses. Had it really come to this? Was he really being lectured in the hallway at work by Wufei Chang about the relative creepiness of the social behaviors of nerds? And had that same Wufei really just used the phrase, 'Don't play the innocent with me?' 

He _could not wait_ to tell Duo about this. 

"Thank you," he said in the most serious tone he could muster. "I'll keep that in mind." 

Wufei nodded sharply, and the conversation seemed to be at an end. As Heero turned away to resume his progress toward normalcy, though, he heard Wufei ask in a quieter tone, "So you... _are_ together with that guy?" And was it Heero's imagination, or did he sound just a little... forlorn... as he said it? 

"Yes," he replied firmly, without turning. 

So that left things mostly sorted at work. The general sales floor populace was satisfied with Heero's explanation that he'd gotten tired of answering questions about his doll and had decided not to bring him in anymore (and very few of them pointed out the incongruity that he never had actually answered most of the questions); Dorothy was unexpectedly on his side, or at least on Duo's side, which at the moment amounted to something similar; and Wufei was... whatever Wufei was. 

Soon everyone would forget that he'd ever had that embarrassing month, and everything would be back to normal. Except that it was a new normal, a normal that involved coming home to Duo every day -- and occasionally, by the looks of it, being surprised by him at lunch. And that was a sort of life alteration Heero could easily embrace.


	148. Plastic Part 97

  


Trowa wasn't entirely certain how he'd been talked into this. Eating with Heero and Duo had become fairly routine, it was true, but Duo was still nominally his best friend and Heero asked nothing of him. Eating with Quatre's family had been trying and not a great deal of fun, but he'd been more than willing to make the effort for the sake of having Quatre's parents' approval. This... this was completely different. He'd only met Heero's sister once, briefly, and knew nothing whatsoever of her fiance... and who would have thought the breaking of the curse would be the herald of so many _dinners_? 

He couldn't help looking back on those few months ever so long ago when he'd been a rising socialite of sorts, welcomed in many circles wherever a self-made man wasn't an object of disdain, and wonder where all his tolerance for people had gone. Not that he'd been much of a fan even then, but he'd at least been able to interact without difficulty, and take sufficient enjoyment from his private thoughts to make that interaction worth it. 

But, then, he'd lived very differently for the last eighty-seven years. His dealings with others had nearly all been business-related; he'd either been asking for something or being asked; there had always been an exchange of some sort that neatly took the place of any sociability. So how had he managed to get himself signed up for a friendly dinner at a restaurant with a group of people that included one he'd never met and another he barely knew? 

"It's not too late, you know... you could still go home." 

Ah, yes. That was how. 

"It's all right," he insisted. 

Quatre liked him. Trowa still didn't quite understand it, but (largely at the insistence of Quatre himself) he'd come to accept the fact. And Quatre deserved a real person for a boyfriend. Maybe it was unwise, maybe it was unhealthy, maybe it was rather pathetic to be considering changing for someone else's sake, but until he was in the right frame of mind to do it for his own, Trowa thought that the desire to make himself into something even a little more like the man Quatre deserved wasn't a bad place to start. And if the first step was to become slightly less reclusive, so be it. 

From the driver's seat, Quatre smiled at him. "At least we don't have to hide anything this time," he said encouragingly. 

It was a good, an _excellent_ point. Half of what had been so difficult about that long evening with Quatre's parents had been the inability, rare in the life of such an accomplished and sought-after magician, to tell them what he really was and the greater part of his real history. But, since Relena already knew and had evidently decided to share that knowledge with her fiance, this wouldn't be a problem tonight. 

The fiance didn't know yet, though, so they'd agreed to meet by conventional means at the restaurant where Relena and whatever the guy's name was were treating them all. Trowa wasn't used to riding in cars, so accustomed was he to traveling just about everywhere he went by magic; actually, the last time he'd been buckled into someone's passenger seat watching the city go by, it had been the same car driven by the same man a month and a half before. How things had changed since then! 

As a matter of fact, he realized as they pulled into the parking lot at their destination, even the same restaurant had been involved. 

"I didn't know we were coming _here_," he murmured as Quatre stopped the car. 

"You don't mind, do you?" Quatre sounded just the tiniest bit anxious. 

Wanting to reassure him, Trowa said in a deadpan, "Are you going to get me drunk again?" 

Quatre grinned. 

"How could I possibly mind revisiting the place where I first saw you?" Trowa added more quietly. 

After reaching briefly to squeeze Trowa's hand, Quatre got out of the car. 

Duo and Heero had been shut up in the bedroom doing... something or other... when Trowa and Quatre had passed through the apartment on the way out, but it appeared they'd left not long after and driven faster, for here they were pulling into the next space at almost the same moment. Trowa knew practically nothing about modern cars, but even he noticed how odd Heero's aged white thing looked next to Quatre's shiny plum-colored one. But he thought their vehicles suited them, somehow, and saw nothing wrong with the contrast. 

"Look!" cried Duo, jumping out. "I have some clothes of my own now!" 

"It's about time!" Quatre said as they all began to walk together toward the restaurant door. "I was wondering how long you could keep wearing Heero's shorts before he got tired of doing laundry so often." 

Trowa was then called upon to approve Duo's new outfit -- black jeans and a purple button-up whose sleeves he'd already rolled past his elbows -- and by the time this admiration had been duly granted, they were inside and Heero was looking around for the sister he stated was already here. At the direction of the staff, they made their way to where a couple of tables had been pushed together for them in a comfortable back corner and their hosts waited. 

"Hi, guys!" Relena greeted them, standing alongside her fiance: a friendly, neat-looking person with a very honest face. Though he appeared, like Heero's sister, to be only a few years younger than Quatre and Heero, something about him seemed, to Trowa, excessively young and fresh; it made Trowa feel old all of a sudden. Well, he _was_ old; he supposed it was all right to feel it. 

Heero hugged Relena -- the first time Trowa had seen him hug anyone besides Duo -- briefly shook hands with the fiance at the latter's polite instigation, then took a seat. This left Relena to introduce the rest of them. 

"Everyone," she began with a smile, "this is Colin Morris, my fiance. Col, this is Quatre Winner; he's the one my mother's always worried Heero's going to start going out with any day." 

"Oh, _that_ Quatre Winner." Colin shook Quatre's hand with a smile. "It's good to meet you. Are you sure you're not the Quatre Winner who's some kind of manager at Winner Plastics?" 

"No, I'm that Quatre Winner too," Quatre grinned. 

"Absolutely no shop talk tonight, though," Relena warned. "We're here so everyone can meet everyone else, and to celebrate. I don't want to hear a single word about offices." 

"Yes, ma'am," said Colin dutifully. "But you only said 'dinner with Heero and some of his friends.' What are we celebrating?" 

"We'll get to that. You haven't met the other two yet." 

"Yeah!" Duo pushed forward. "I'm coming to you guys' wedding and I've never even officially met the groom!" 

Relena laughed. "Well, that's not _that_ unusual. But, Colin, this is Duo Maxwell, Heero's new boyfriend." 

Colin threw a glance at Heero. "A new boyfriend? Nice work, old boy." Then he shook hands with Duo, who was deliberately preening as if Colin's words had been specifically in compliment to him. 

"And this is Trowa Barton, Quatre's boyfriend." Trowa was a little surprised she'd gotten his name right, given the brevity of their last meeting. He'd only remembered hers because the others had said it a few times earlier. 

"Pleased to meet you," Colin smiled, shaking Trowa's hand. 

As the last introduced, Trowa was the last to take his seat, and found himself, to his pleasure, between Quatre and Duo with his back to the wall; at least one of them must have been looking out for him. 

Colin, now sitting opposite Trowa beside Relena, glanced around once the noisy scraping of their chairs had mostly ceased, and asked jovially, "So what is it we're celebrating?" 

There was a lot of side-eying in response to this among the other men. "We're telling everything, right?" Quatre confirmed at last. 

"Only if you want to," replied Relena placidly. "If not, we can just have a mystery celebration and he can wonder forever." 

"That hardly seems fair!" Colin protested. 

"I don't think any of us mind telling," grinned Quatre, looking around at his friends. 

Trowa and Heero shook their heads in concurrence. Duo shrugged and said, "Sure... it's not like he'll believe it anyway," at which both Quatre and Relena laughed. 

"All right, now I'm _dying_ to know," said Colin. 

"Let's all decide what we want first," was Relena's authoritative suggestion, probably in response to the waitress that had been patiently standing nearby watching them get settled. 

Trowa chose some kind of salad that had chicken and mandarin oranges on top, declined Quatre's facetious, sotto voce offer of a glass of wine with only a very slight blush, then sat back and waited for someone else to begin the story. And someone else did, but only after Colin had been commanded not to express his opinion on anything until the entire account was made, and a brief debate over whether it would sound better in chronological order or as Heero and Quatre had experienced it -- an exchange that seemed to render poor Colin quite amusingly wild with curiosity. 

Quatre made a good tale of it, leaving nothing out except for the more personal details, and even managing to quell Duo's frequent interruptions fairly skillfully. He told about the curse, some of Duo's unfortunate history as a doll, and how Trowa had spent so many years looking for him; how he and Heero had come to be involved, and been found by Trowa; what the latter had tried before they'd discovered the answer -- Trowa was surprised Quatre remembered so many details there; the little human abilities Duo had gradually attained; Heero's troubles with co-workers -- some of which Trowa hadn't heard about, and which were rather funny; the misunderstandings that kept them all dancing around important issues for so long -- just in general: not enough to be embarrassing, only enough to be entertaining; and about their tension and concern that final evening. 

It was a longer story than Trowa had realized. Of course it spanned an entire century, but just in the telling it took over an hour. Part of that was the aforementioned interruptions from Duo and the occasional question from Relena or even Colin (who was apparently allowed to make interjections if they were in search of clarification), but it really did take quite a while; they were all finished eating (except Quatre, whose mouth had been occupied with words) by the time it was done. 

When Quatre had fallen silent, everyone else did too, and eventually they were all looking at Colin somewhat expectantly -- even Duo, who had formerly been studying the dessert menu with intense purpose. Trowa couldn't imagine how this must sound to someone that previously hadn't even known magic existed; he thought back to his last visit to this restaurant, when he'd been so desperate to convince Quatre and Heero to let him see Duo that he'd been willing to pour his heart out to total strangers. Rather to his own surprise, tonight he found himself more entertained and curious to hear what Colin would have to say than anything else. 

"Well," Colin began with a half baffled grin, running his hand through his hair. "I think I'm still waiting for you guys to announce that this is a screenplay you've collaborated on and you want to know what I think of it." 

There were a couple of chuckles from around the table indicating that Colin was reacting exactly as expected. 

"Or a novel?" he suggested next. "I've never heard of four people co-authoring all at once, but..." 

Duo covered his mouth to stifle an even louder laugh, but couldn't hide his grin. 

"A pitch for a television series?" Colin looked around at them, still jovially confused. "I mean, it's a great story, but..." 

"It's totally for real, Col," said Relena. She patted him on the shoulder with an expression of amused sympathy. "I know it's a lot to take in at once. It was hard for me even when Duo was a doll." 

Now it was Colin's turn for a laugh, though his was utterly disbelieving and still a little baffled. "OK," he said, obviously deciding to play along and not the least bit convinced. "OK, so..." He turned his eyes toward Duo and asked, attempting to keep a straight face, "So how long were you a doll, again?" 

"Eighty-seven years," replied Duo, grinning lopsidedly. He could see as well as the rest of them that Colin didn't believe any of this yet. 

"Right, right." Colin shook his head. What he must be thinking of their motives and their sense of entertainment at the moment Trowa could only guess, and trying to guess was rather amusing. But it was time to speed things up. 

Fixing his eyes on the glass across the table from him, Trowa murmured a spell. 

Looking a little startled, as people often did when they heard the magical language for the first time, Colin glanced back abruptly at Trowa and said, "What was tha--whoa!" And he jumped backward, making his chair screech across the tile floor and topple as he left it, upon catching sight of his Diet Coke suddenly bright red fading to orange. 

Almost everyone else at the table laughed again (which, in the face of Colin's startlement, was perhaps a bit insensitive), and Quatre actually leaned over and kissed Trowa on the cheek. "Well done," he said. 

"Sit down," Relena bade her fiance with a grin, rising to right his chair for him. "You should have seen what he did to convince _me_" -- though, if Trowa recalled correctly, this had been nothing more than some nonsense with cards (well, technically it _had_ been magic, but it probably could have been duplicated by sleight of hand). "We're fine," she next told the waiter that came hurrying over, trying not to laugh as she took a step to the side to hide the still-vacillating drink. 

At the latter Colin stared as he slowly resumed his seat. It faded from blue to purple, then back to its proper brown, under his eyes, and he then looked up at Trowa. "Can you..." he asked hesitantly. "Can you do that again?" 

In the past, Trowa had rarely been pleased with requests for meaningless displays of magic (the most notable exceptions being when Quatre was involved), but at the moment he was only amused and happy to comply. This time he instructed the soda to progress through a series of greens and yellows to white and then back, and Colin watched in open-mouthed astonishment. 

"That's... amazing..." he breathed. "What else can you do?" 

Trowa shrugged, casting about for something more interesting. His gaze alighted on the salt and pepper shakers, and he spoke a slightly more complicated spell to make them hover just above the table and engage in a spinning dance. 

"I think you've got a fan, Trois," Duo grinned, for Colin still hadn't managed to shut his gaping mouth and his eyes were shining with wonder. 

"It _is_ extremely sexy," said Quatre seriously. 

"I don't know about sexy..." Colin was beginning to get hold of himself, but at the same time seemed increasingly excited. "But it's amazing! Is it real magic? Or else how do you do it? Actually..." he added in a mixture of still-agitated pensiveness and loyalty, "it might be pretty sexy if Relena did it." 

"She probably could, eventually," Duo said thoughtfully. "Heero's got the talent, and it usually does run in families." 

Colin looked at his fiance with brows raised in pleased surprised. Relena managed to put on a mysterious expression just in time, though there was mirth behind it. This made Quatre and Duo laugh again, and even Trowa had to smile. 

"OK, so..." Colin turned back to sweep his eyes somewhat greedily over the rest of them again; they came to rest on Trowa. "You turned him into a _doll_?" 

So the story, essentially, had to be told all over. It didn't take quite as long as last time, and in this instance the distractions were provided by Trowa himself as he continued to work magic on a small scale all across their dining space for Colin's entertainment, ceasing only, abruptly, whenever anyone walked by or they ordered dessert or their dessert arrived. At that point Duo tried a few spells of his own, which, he being rather rusty, ended up getting whipped cream from the top of his pie all over his face and his brand-new shirt (and Trowa did _not_ miss the look he and Heero exchanged at this). 

There could be no doubt: Colin was convinced, and extremely interested in everything. His innocent fascination drew even Trowa and Heero out of their reticence to answer his very engaging questions, and soon everyone seemed much more at ease than Trowa had thought they (or at least he) could possibly be this evening. Not only that, here he was doing magic -- utterly pointless magic -- without feeling the least bit bad about it or expecting anything in return. Maybe relearning how to make friends and have fun with them wouldn't be quite as difficult as he'd thought. 

And under the table, he felt Quatre's hand take hold of his, and everything in the world was fine.


	149. Plastic Part 98

It was becoming something of a tradition for Trowa to help Heero make dinner for the four of them after work on at least a couple of nights of the week. Quatre thought Heero enjoyed observing the magic Trowa used for this purpose, though he hadn't yet agreed to start learning how to do it himself; and that Trowa liked having the chance to make food for his lover rather than the other way around -- though whether this was because Quatre's hopelessness in the kitchen had shone through even in all those microwave meals or because Trowa simply enjoyed the reversal of roles, Quatre couldn't guess. 

"So, Duo," Quatre said lazily as they were both lounging on the sofa one Tuesday evening waiting for their boyfriends to cater to their every whim, "you've been human for two weeks now... how are you liking it?" 

"That," said Duo solemnly, "is a very stupid question." 

"It is not. You were a doll for a lot longer than you were a human before; I thought maybe after turning back you might have realized you liked being a doll better." 

"That," Duo echoed himself, "is a very stupid idea." 

Quatre stuck out his tongue. Duo threw one of the smaller couch cushions at him. It was too point-blank for Quatre to catch it except as it bounced off his face, but once it had done so, he propped it behind him and leaned back against it. "Seriously, though," he went on. "What are your plans?" 

Duo, his half of the couch now one cushion less comfortable, nevertheless also leaned back and put his hands behind his head. "Oh, there's all sorts of stuff I need to do." His tone sounded as lazy as the one with which Quatre had introduced this topic, yet perfectly serious. "Heero's going to start teaching me to drive one of these days..." 

"Wow, that's a scary thought," Quatre murmured. 

"Isn't it?" Heero agreed from the kitchen. 

"You two can just both shut up," said Duo. "Anyway, so then I'll be able to get a driver's license. Oh, but first I need a state I.D. and a birth certificate and stuff so I can exist." 

"I'm working on that," said Trowa, also from the kitchen. 

"He could just get you a driver's license," Quatre pointed out. "Trowa, your people can get him anything, can't they?" 

"Nobody is driving my car until they actually know how to drive," Heero put in. 

"There you go," said Duo, grinning. "Also I think I'll try for one of those GED things. Trowa's people could get me one of those too, but it's stuff I'm going to want to be sure I know." 

"Oh, that's a good idea," Quatre nodded. "Then I can get you a job." 

"Can you?" 

"Yeah, we don't hire high school dropouts. Usually we want a college degree, actually... but if a Regional Manager recommends you, you may be able to get in without one." 

"Well, I think I'll want a college degree at some point too. But I _will_ need a job for that." 

"If you promise to get real work done every day without distracting Heero too much, I'll see what I can do." 

"I can't help it if I'm distracting." Duo tried to look innocent and failed. 

Quatre laughed. "As long as it's non-contact distraction." 

From the kitchen he barely caught Heero's muttered, "That's just as bad." 

"Hey! I said it's not my fault!" Duo could hardly make this protest with a straight face. "Did I _force_ you guys to take that week off? Besides!" He veered suddenly onto the offensive. "Trowa! How's your book coming?" 

"I haven't actually started it yet," replied Trowa placidly. 

With a very pointed look at Quatre, Duo said, "See?" 

Quatre just laughed again. Then he brought them back around to the real topic of discussion with, "I think it's about $75 to take the GED; you could probably do it as soon as you think you're ready. I know there are study guides..." 

"Yeah," Duo nodded. "I'm going to end up owing Heero my soul if he keeps paying for all these things for me." 

Just to see what Heero would say, Quatre suggested, "I could pay for it for you." 

"No." As expected, Heero advanced to the edge of the linoleum and spoke directly out at them. "If Duo's going to owe his soul to anyone, it's going to be me." 

"Awww," said Duo, sounding pleased. "See," he added in an undertone to Quatre, "_him_ I can pay back with sex." 

Quatre snorted. Heero said, "What was that?" 

"Nothing!" Duo sang. 

"Trowa, go see what they're doing over there," Heero ordered. 

Presently Trowa's face appeared above Quatre's, leaning over the back of the couch to look at him. "What are you doing over here?" he asked quietly, appearing amused. Quatre reached up suddenly and dragged him into an upside-down, off-balance kiss. 

"PDA! PDA!" cried Duo, and began beating at them with the one small couch cushion still within his reach. 

Trowa stepped aside, but Quatre wasn't going to take this. He retrieved one of the three pillows on his end and retaliated. Soon the combat escalated off the couch, and laughter was threatening to defeat them both before either could force the other to yield. But then Duo called out something in the magical language, and the other two small cushions -- which Quatre had been keeping his eye on, as backup weaponry -- jumped into the air and flew toward him. 

"That is not fair!" Quatre protested breathlessly. "Trowa, help!" 

"How old are you two?" wondered Trowa, unmoved. 

"I'm a hundred and eleven!" Duo cried triumphantly. 

"You shouldn't be allowed to use magic!" Quatre was laughing helplessly as Duo and Duo's accomplices battered him and he was rarely able to get in a shot of his own. Then, finally, he heard Trowa's voice calmly coming to his assistance. In response to the mysterious words, one of the aggressive floating cushions sped off abruptly in another direction -- a poorly-chosen direction, it turned out, for it careened into the lamp on the end table. Trowa started forward and spoke a quick, brief phrase, and the lamp halted in response to his outstretched hand, hovering and turning very slowly in mid-air. 

Duo, looking impressed, cast a quick spell of his own to make the last couch cushion stop attacking Quatre, then came to look at Trowa's work. "Good lord, Trois... you didn't even specify an object! You've got to be the best magician of the century or something!" 

"I may be," Trowa replied. "I did gesture, though." There was only honesty -- not even the slightest touch of braggadocio -- in his tone; Quatre doubted there could be anything sexier in the world than his quick-thinking use of magic and subsequent modesty. 

Heero, having left the kitchen and joined them where they were gathered around the end table, was examining the floating lamp with some interest, peering closely at it and bending to look from all angles. "You just said, 'Let it hover.'" He sounded as impressed as Duo, though presumably Duo knew better than he did why this was so impressive. 

Trowa nodded. 

Taking the lamp in his hands almost gingerly, Heero guided it back onto the end table and watched it for a moment as if it might float away now that he'd let go. Then he turned to Duo. From this angle Quatre couldn't see the expression on his face, but Duo started backing away with raised hands and a winningly sheepish grin. "Duo," Heero said darkly, pursuing his retreating boyfriend around the TV stand, "you're going to owe me more than your soul if you start breaking things in my apartment." 

"It wasn't my fault!" Duo protested, disappearing into the hall in his attempt to escape justice. 

"You started it." 

"But the spell--" Duo's words were suddenly cut off, and Quatre assumed that Heero had caught up with him and was exacting whatever revenge he saw fit. 

Laughing, Quatre bent to retrieve the scattered cushions and straighten the couch. When he was finished, he found Trowa close beside him, raising his hands to smooth out Quatre's hair -- which, he informed him in a murmur, was a mess. Liking the feeling of those long, slender fingers, Quatre raised his face and smiled. Trowa smiled back, summoning the usual butterflies that this time fluttered up into the joyful thought that it was taking less and less to get Trowa to smile these days. 

"Thank you," Quatre murmured. 

Briefly, unexpectedly, Trowa bent and kissed him. "You're welcome." Then he returned to the kitchen to resume whatever he'd been working on before all the drama had started. "Heero, can this bread come out?" he called after a moment. 

For some time there was no answer from down the hall, but eventually a very disinterested-sounding affirmative floated out to them. Quatre chuckled and returned to the sofa. Eventually their friends emerged, both looking just a little flushed; Heero went back to the kitchen without a word, and Duo came to sit beside Quatre again. 

"In answer to your question earlier," said Duo, putting his hands behind his head once more and relaxing back into the replaced cushions, "I fucking love being human."


	150. Plastic Part 99

It was going to be a while, Duo thought, before he was really accustomed to his own humanity again. As Quatre had pointed out earlier this week, he'd been a doll a lot longer than he'd been a human, and probably had become more accustomed to _not_ being able to feel or smell or taste than he'd ever been to the ability. And the more he considered the matter, the more he thought that with this contrast in mind was the best way to live. 

Everyone else he saw -- when he was wandering around aimlessly while Heero was at work, or when he went shopping with Heero and made sure anyone that saw them knew they were a couple -- they didn't appreciate things the way he did. They didn't recognize how marvelous it was just to be able to breathe, to walk, to eat, to have a choice about where they went or what they did, to have physical sensations and awareness and needs. 

Admittedly it _was_ a little bizarre to be so pleased when he had to get up in the middle of the night to use the toilet. Other people didn't need to be as happy about such a circumstance as Duo was, and, really, _Duo_ didn't need to be as happy about such a circumstance as Duo was. But he still thought he was lucky, thought he saw life in a better light than anyone that had never been a doll. Though he couldn't exactly pity them for never having been dolls, he did pity them for not being as happy as he was; the whole entire world could never be as wonderful to them as it was to him, and that was a little sad. 

Of course, they didn't have Heero either, and that -- for them -- was sadder than anything. But, once again, Duo thought as he crawled back into bed next to his sleeping boyfriend, he wouldn't wish it otherwise. 

He had already spent quite a lot of time -- more than two hundred fifty hours, he estimated -- watching Heero sleep, but like this it was so different as to seem a completely new and separate experience. Now he could reach over and run his hand through Heero's hair, push it out of his face if it was being particularly unruly; bend and kiss him if he wished, even press himself fully against him if he was feeling cold or lonely. All this, and also it made a difference knowing that he too could fall asleep at any time, that he would wake up at Heero's side if not actually in his arms. 

Now he touched Heero's beautiful face softly with his fingertips, and Heero unconsciously responded by wrinkling his nose as if to dislodge a crawling itch. Duo laughed silently, and draped his arm across Heero's chest. Heero made a faint noise, raised a hand to clasp at the arm, and then settled into stillness again. 

Overwhelmed suddenly with burning happiness that made him want to shout out loud, Duo instead pressed his lips to Heero's cheek and then forced himself to stop moving. He still almost couldn't believe that things had turned out like this, that he'd found someone like Heero. He was sure there were other people in the world that would have been willing to go through a month of inconvenience with him, but of those, how many was he likely to have fallen in love with? Heero was one in a million; if Duo hadn't ended up in the gutter outside _his_ office at just the right time, he would not be breathing right now. 

He wondered suddenly how things would have gone -- for all of them -- if the curse had never happened. If he had never met that woman -- what had her name been? -- or if he and Trowa hadn't argued, or if Trowa had never gotten hold of that artifact, where would they all be now? Well, _now_ he and Trowa would be dead, of course. But how would their lives have gone? They probably would have been lovers eventually, and perhaps it would have lasted. They would have lived out their days in relative contentment, not knowing what they were missing. 

And here in the future, would Heero have stayed lonely? Would he ever have found someone that could get past his walls and make him laugh? Or would he eventually just have hooked up with his best friend, the supportive person he'd once kissed because they 'might as well try it?' Duo thought Heero and Quatre could have been happy together too, for all the control issues, not knowing that a greater happiness would have found them if things had happened differently ninety years before. 

It was funny how almost a century of suffering could lead to the best possible solution in the end... because Duo couldn't imagine being happier than he was now. And now that all was said and done, he couldn't really regret the curse, either. If he had to do it over again, knowing that Heero was at the end of it... well, he would certainly complain about being a doll, but he wouldn't hesitate. 

Falling asleep was marvelous. So far there were no signs of the insomnia that had plagued him in earlier life -- but, then, there had been very few nights since the breaking of the curse when he hadn't been rather worn out by the time he was attempting to sleep; Heero had a lot more energy than Duo had expected, and Duo was _not_ complaining. He loved to sink into fluffy unawareness with his arms around Heero, loved that Heero's face was routinely the last thing he saw before drifting off. 

Of course, waking up was nice these days too. Even if it was at some ungodly hour he would never before deliberately have endured (as a human), it was a reminder both that he was capable of sleep and that Heero was beside him and had been all night. There was very little, in fact, from which Duo could not derive pleasure these days. And that today was Sunday and they were not required to wake to an alarm, that Heero didn't have work, could only make a good situation better. 

Heero, however, seemed to feel things less than perfect, for he made an unhappy noise when Duo's luxurious stretching woke him up, and buried his face in the pillow. 

Duo kissed the back of his neck and said, "What's wrong?" 

"We're having dinner with my parents tonight, remember?" 

Now that he mentioned it, Duo _did_ remember. He might have been dreading it, if not for the fact that being human enough to meet his boyfriend's parents made him so damn happy. _Heero_ was dreading it, though, Duo knew. He ran his hands through the messy dark hair and kissed him again. "That's, like..." He glanced at the clock. "Seven hours from now. Why are you thinking about it now?" 

"I can't help it if you're not distracting me," Heero muttered. 

"Oh! That sounds like a challenge!" Duo scrambled off the bed. As he was already naked, he couldn't engage in any sort of striptease to capture his reluctant lover's attention, so, as soon as he knew Heero had turned his eyes out of the pillow and was looking in this direction, he seized the first object to hand off the dresser. It turned out to be a tie that Heero hadn't bothered to put away on Friday after work -- somewhat boring green and gold stripes -- and Duo ran it through his hands with a pensive little smile. "You have no idea what I'm about to do in the shower," he murmured, and headed for the bathroom. 

Sounds of bedding being hastily thrown aside came from behind him, along with Heero's protest, "That's dry-clean only!" 

"Is that really all you can say?" Duo laughed, and turned the hot water on. 

They didn't see anything of Trowa and Quatre that day, and Duo, thinking back to the last time Heero had accepted his parents' dinner invitation, wondered idly whether they might not be in Paris again. Therefore, since he and Heero had gotten the apartment cleaned up yesterday -- an activity that, like most of his new life, Duo enjoyed a good deal more than he might have expected -- there was nothing to amuse themselves with but sex and Oz and random conversation. The first was scattered throughout the day; the second, Duo greatly enjoyed because he finally got a turn to read and the opportunity to do voices; the third was as good as always, despite Heero's apprehension for this evening. 

When the latter did eventually come, for all Heero seemed to want to delay it, Duo took him by the hand and said very seriously, "Hey. You only have to do this once, and then it'll be over." 

Heero just sighed. 

Duo kissed his cheek. "They have to come around eventually, and it'll probably be tonight, since I'm pretty sure nobody in the world could hold out against the power of our love." 

Still Heero looked grim. 

"Plus they're smart people," Duo tried. "I mean, they're _your_ parents." When this contrived compliment also failed to win him a positive reaction, he added, "And I'm sure they really do want you to be happy. You are happy, aren't you?" 

Finally Heero smiled; it looked a little forced, but the fact that he was forcing it for Duo's sake meant something anyway. "Yes," he said. "You're right. I wish it were as simple as you make it sound, but you're still right." And he returned the cheek-kiss. Then, with another sigh that was more the release of a deep, determined breath, he added, "Let's get ready to go."


	151. Plastic Part 100

The Asian district in this city wasn't the most stereotypically Asian example of such a neighborhood Heero had ever heard of, which seemed to cause Duo some disappointment as he saw it now for the first time. That didn't mean Duo wasn't still behaving like an adorable dog with its panting head out the car window, though, or that he didn't exclaim over what architecture and decoration _did_ clearly say 'Asian' to his American eyes. Heero answered his random questions about the area and growing up there, but otherwise remained silent during the drive. He had no idea how tonight was going to go, and was bracing himself harder than usual. 

His father had never been demonstrative, but even he, when Heero had made his announcement four years back, had been direct and rather emotional with his immediate expression of disapproval. Mrs. Yuy's reaction didn't bear thinking of. There had been tears and angry words and then that long period of noncommunication, and the wounds occasioned that day had never really been discussed or patched up. Gradually, eventually, they'd begun talking again, without ever really mentioning the confrontation or Heero's sexuality. Things had smoothed out, for the most part, but for the occasional veiled hint or attempt to set him up with some girl, and hadn't become truly awkward again until Relena's engagement. 

Quatre and Relena both thought that what Heero needed was a boyfriend, to show his parents that he really was gay, that he was happy that way, that he had the potential for life-long happiness in declining to deny what he was. Heero had always agreed with them, up to a point... and that point, unfortunately, seemed to be where he actually brought the new boyfriend to meet his parents and attempt to prove all those things. Because he didn't know that he really believed it would help. And he just couldn't stand the thought of his parents' continued disapproval. If they were unpleasant to Duo, or if they gave any indication, in his presence, that they still believed this was a game or a mistake... Heero was afraid there would be another row, this one undoubtedly a little more difficult to recover from. 

"You OK?" Duo asked presently. 

"Yeah." Heero couldn't bring himself to say anything more. 

Duo made a sympathetic noise, but it seemed he'd run out of reassurances. 

At that moment, Heero's phone gave off an obnoxious beeping he didn't often hear from it, and he frowned as he fished it out of his pocket. Handing it to Duo he said, "Can you look at that?" 

"_From Winner, Quatre_," Duo read out. "_Texting since you're probably driving and Duo can read it. Just wishing you luck tonight. Trowa says so too. We're cheering for you guys._" He made funny noises as he attempted to read aloud Quatre's signature, which, if Heero remembered correctly, involved a number of unpronounceable symbols as decoration. "That's so sweet." 

Generally Heero hated text messages, and had forbidden Quatre to send him any, but at the moment couldn't but appreciate the sentiment written out so definitively -- especially since, if Quatre had actually _called_ him this close to the time, Heero probably wouldn't have answered. He nodded his agreement to Duo's statement. 

His sister and brother-to-be had arrived first, but -- bless her heart -- Relena had obviously insisted on waiting around outside so everyone could enter together. Heero returned her greeting hug particularly enthusiastically. "How are you guys?" she asked as she withdrew. 

"He's freaking out," Duo said bluntly before Heero could answer. 

"I wouldn't have put it quite like that," Heero muttered. 

"Oh, Heero." Relena took his shoulder and squeezed it. "It's going to be fine!" 

"That depends on how you define 'fine.'" 

"Well, it's going to be really awkward at first, but they're going to see that you guys are serious about each other, and they're going to realize that everything is OK. You'll see." Though she spoke with certainty, she clearly observed that he wasn't convinced. Lips tightening, her face took on that authoritative expression so much like one their mother often wore. And in perfect keeping with this, what she said was, "Heero. In case you haven't noticed any time in the last twenty-two years, I'm just like mama. I _know_ how she's going to react. Trust me." 

And at this, Heero had to smile. She _was_ a good deal like their mother, and maybe she was right about being able to predict Mrs. Yuy's reaction because of that. He was still short of words, but he nodded, and she seemed to accept this answer. 

"And don't forget that we have your back," said Colin, placing his own hand on Heero's unoccupied shoulder. Everything Colin said usually sounded so polished, but now there was just a touch of uncertainty to his tone. It wasn't that he doubted what he was saying, Heero thought, but rather that he still wasn't quite sure yet how brotherly Heero would allow him to be -- which actually rendered his expression of support more meaningful, given that he'd still offered it. 

"Thank you," said Heero sincerely. Then he squared his shoulders, dislodging both of his well-wishers, and added, "Let's get this over with." 

Relena and Colin joined hands as they headed up across the front lawn toward the porch. And as Heero moved to follow, watching them from behind, his steps slowed. Eventually he came to a complete halt, standing in the middle of the grass as his sister and her fiance drew farther and farther away. 

"What is it?" Duo asked quietly. "Don't tell me you're backing out." 

"No..." Heero took a deep breath and turned to face him. "You know what it's like in there; or at least you heard what it was like last time. It may be worse tonight. And I'm going to do my best to be a real person, but... if I curl up in a ball, or run screaming, I..." 

"I'd like to see that," Duo teased, though his amused tone was still sympathetic. 

"But even if I turn into a... a frigid bitch... I want you to know that I..." It took some effort and another deep breath, but he managed to say it at last. "I love you." 

This time Duo really did knock them both right over with the enthusiasm of his full-contact embrace; he seemed to go from zero to sixty in half an instant and eight inches, and they were suddenly in the grass in a tangle, and from the porch Relena was failing to stifle a laugh. Duo was also laughing at his own inadvertent tackle, but Heero thought this laughter had somewhat the sound of restrained sobbing. When he put his mouth close to Heero's ear and whispered to him, the tone of his voice confirmed this. 

"You just wait, Heero Yuy... later I'm going to tell you exactly what I think of that." 

"Thanks," Heero said, and found that he sounded a bit choked himself. "That thought should get me through the night." 

Duo's ecstatic smile as he pulled away from Heero and jumped up, then offered a hand to help Heero up after him, would have been a sufficient reward in itself, even without his words. Once Heero was on his feet again, Duo kissed him hard for a moment before accompanying him on across the lawn. They all filed through the door, Duo still grinning and Heero with a heart just the tiniest bit lighter for it. 

As usual, his father was waiting in the front room, and his mother entered when she heard them. There were the typical hearty greetings for Relena and Colin, and then the Yuy parents turned toward their son and the stranger. Relena had been the one to request permission for another friend to join them for dinner tonight, so this would be the first indication not only of said friend's name but of what, exactly, he was to those present. This would be the moment that would determine quite a bit of Heero's happiness or pain for the next he knew not how long. 

Yet he found, now that it came to it, rather than the reluctance and deep concern he'd been experiencing all day -- and, to a certain extent, all week, all month, perhaps every month and every year since he'd realized this moment must come -- that this wasn't going to be nearly as difficult as he'd anticipated. He had a man he loved beside him, and supportive friends around him, and the assurance of good thoughts from those that were absent; he would survive whatever happened here. 

"Mama, papa," he said. Deliberately, he reached for Duo's hand. "I want you to meet Duo Maxwell, my boyfriend."


	152. Fast Decisions

The Wal-Mart electronics department was a stormy sea of temptation in which Sano, when foolish enough to venture there, not infrequently foundered. The broad 'electronics' heading simply held too many items he would be more than happy to own for him to approach even such a homogenized selection as this without going into a sort of trance in which all thoughts of prudence or the need to eat for the next month were swallowed up in the desire to shoot enemy soldiers and/or aliens underscored by some badass guitar. 

Today, however, he had a specific and reasonable purpose -- even an inevitable, necessary one -- and hoped to avoid spending too much on anything he didn't need by concentrating hard on what he actually did. 

His cell phone provider was cheap in every sense, and the part of the rack that bore their logo had the smallest variety of phones of any of the assembled companies -- but they had, at least, finally acknowledged modern times with a single smartphone option, and over this Sano lingered longingly. It looked a bit outdated compared to those from other providers -- though still five or six times more expensive than the plainer phones from _this_ provider -- but in any case it had to be worlds better than the device Sano had come to replace, which was by this time not so much on its last legs as ignoring its vestigial organs in favor of a sidewinding slither. 

Of course he always had the option of _switching_ providers. It would be more expensive per month, but also nice to have voicemail included in the plan rather than as an add-on, as well as, probably, some other little features he'd been entirely doing without all this time... and then he could get a much prettier smartphone than this one here. Like one of the new iPhones made with indestructible helicopter fiberglass or whatever. He could see what that _Angry Birds_ thing was all about. 

But did he really _need_ to see what that _Angry Birds_ thing was all about? And aside from games he could play anywhere, how did a smartphone actually compete with the less intelligent kind? Of a phone, after all, he only required standard communicative functions, and that purpose had been adequately fulfilled by a much crappier one this whole time. What use could he possibly have for a smartphone? 

Stupid question. A smartphone was a little computer, and nothing like a computer could ever be a bad thing to own or a waste of money, right? 

But if he wanted to buy a new computer, wouldn't it be better to buy an _actual_ new computer? 

This train of thought was, presumably, the reason he found himself looking at laptops when he'd come to find a new cell phone. His desktop occasionally crashed for no apparent reason, and some games the video card in particular just couldn't handle. It would be nice to be able to take notes at school in a more organized fashion, too. 

But it wasn't strictly necessary. He hadn't made any real attempts to do anything about his current computer, and a system restore -- a much less expensive option than an entirely new machine -- might solve its solvable problems. It seemed extravagant to buy a new computer outright when the old one still functioned at a high level. And he needed a phone in any case, and certainly wouldn't get a laptop _and_ a smartphone. 

On the other hand, laptop prices had come down drastically in the last few years... four or five hundred dollars would give him the chance to stop rocking XP Professional and finally try out that copy of _The Saboteur_ he'd never gotten to work, and then he could grab the least expensive phone his current provider offered and come out of the shopping trip not _too_ much poorer. 

Who was he kidding? Four or five hundred dollars poorer when he'd come in planning on a twenty dollar phone?? Also, if he _did_ decide to switch providers -- which seemed like a good idea, on the whole -- that would cost him extra to get started too. And he might still actually want a more advanced phone than the least expensive one available. More than twenty dollars, sure, but less than four or five hundred. 

But it _still_ seemed silly to buy a miniature computer instead of an actual computer. And he _wanted _a laptop. 

But he didn't _need_ a laptop. 

"If you know you don't need a laptop, walk away from the laptops. Don't stand here staring at them like some broke idiot who's wandered into a bar hoping someone will buy him a beer if he just looks thirsty enough." 

"I wasn't doing that!" Sano turned to face the suit-coated man that had appeared unexpectedly at his side. "I wasn't doing that at all!" 

"Close enough." Hajime, obviously picking up on Sano's brainwaves, couldn't possibly miss the rush of joy that always filled the younger man at the sight of the older; but in this case, before Sano's effort at keeping his thoughts in check (an automatic response to Hajime's presence) took hold, there must also be a rush of annoyance as the exorcist moved to stand between him and the computers on display. "You clearly have no idea what it's like to be a communicator," Hajime went on, putting a firm hand on Sano's shoulder. "It's bad enough that I have to hear irrelevant thoughts from half the people around me... then someone like you comes along and starts _broadcasting_ his problems." 

Though Sano immediately protested that he hadn't been broadcasting, he allowed himself to be directed -- almost pushed -- away from the laptops and back toward the cell phones. 

"I could hear you from all the way across the store." 

Sano grumbled something mostly indistinct, but he _did_ recall what his mental state had been before Hajime popped out of nowhere. Though not about to admit it, perhaps he could see how he had maybe been broadcasting just a little. That it seemed to have summoned Hajime, though, like a genie at the rub of a lamp, wasn't likely to make Sano think too badly of the activity. 

"You were radiating indecision like a criminal who wants to get caught so he can get help. So here I am to rescue you from your complete lack of self-control." With the final shove necessary to reposition Sano before the rack he'd originally been examining, Hajime also came to a halt. "There doesn't seem to be any good reason," he continued in a businesslike tone, "for you not to switch carriers and buy a reasonably priced smartphone if that's what you want. In this society a reliable phone with reliable service is not a luxury; it's a necessity. As long as you know you're up to the monthly bill and won't let the phone get damaged so you have to replace it." 

"I'm pretty sure I _wasn't_ broadcasting, 'Hey, Hajime, come over here and lecture me,'" Sano muttered. 

"I'm not lecturing." That Hajime released Sano's shoulders at this point was a mixed blessing. "I'm reminding you of what you already know. Make up your mind about your new phone and then come find me in grocery." 

Sano felt a little thrill at the command, as it pretty much guaranteed this chance meeting would lead to them hanging out. And though that was a fairly standard result of a chance meeting between them, with Hajime chance meetings weren't so plentiful, nor friendly declarations of such low value, that Sano could fail to take pleasure from them. So, much more gleefully than before, he turned his attention seriously back to the rack he'd come to examine. 

All of a sudden the choice of carrier and model didn't seem nearly as complicated as it had a few minutes ago. In fact, it was now perfectly obvious which company would be the best option and which smartphone he wanted. And though veiled laptop desires still danced, sparkling, at the edge of his awareness, they no longer significantly tempted him. 

It turned out he had no need to go find Hajime in grocery. The process of obtaining the fixed attention of an employee qualified in the workings of cell phone accounts, then waiting while that person set him up with a monthly plan and initiated a port process, necessitated a longer time spent in the electronics department than Hajime could possibly take looking for and even purchasing food and whatever else he needed throughout the store. He rejoined Sano just as the latter had finished setting up an automatic recurring payment on his debit card and was receiving lengthy and repetitive instructions on how the service switch would progress over the next twenty-four hours. 

And as Sano, ridiculously pleased at his new acquisition and excited to play with it extensively, finally turned away from the counter to the sound of the employee's polite goodbye, Hajime asked with just the tiniest touch of impatience, "Do you need anything else here?" 

"Nope, this was everything." Triumphantly Sano held up the box containing his new phone. 

"You came in your own car?" And when Sano confirmed this, Hajime replied, "I'll bring you back here later to pick it up, then." 

Under some circumstances, Hajime's dogmatic assumptions about coming events, what people around him would do, irritated the hell out of Sano. But he could never be annoyed by the assumption that the two of them would be spending the evening together. And anyway he would only be exploring his new phone all night regardless of where he was. He did wonder a little, though, how Hajime would react if he told him he had somewhere else to be. 

"We can't finish season two if you're not going to be paying attention." Hajime, now sounding somewhat amused, had clearly foreseen Sano's primary activity this evening. Without divination, even. 

"You're right," Sano admitted regretfully. "It'll have to be something else." And his inevitable preoccupation ruled out a number of options -- any show he particularly cared to see, all games of any type -- but Hajime never had a problem finding something to do while Sano hung around pointlessly. That this was the case blatantly delighted Sano. 

"The movie I just rented is supposedly extremely funny," Hajime informed him, lifting a shopping bag through which the shape of a DVD showed vaguely among the obscure purchases. "We'll see if it can distract you from your new toy." 

"More like I'll be distracted watching _you_," Sano retorted as he waited for the click of lock to let him know he could climb into Hajime's car, "to see if you've grown a sense of humor lately." Since Hajime generally seemed to enjoy laughing at what he considered folly in Sano more than at anything else. Which Sano actually didn't mind much. 

Whatever Hajime said in response was largely inaudible between the crackle of his shopping bags settling into the back and the closing of one door before he opened the other and took his seat behind the steering wheel, but, judging by a familiar tone, Sano thought it must be some variation of, "Idiot." 

Only belatedly, as they left the parking lot, did Sano realize his old phone was due to stop working any time and the new one might require some figuring out. With this in mind, the text he immediately sent might have been just a little more hastily composed and poorly spelled than usual, but he believed his friend would get the gist of it. 

Sensing a mental outreach from Hajime as he would detect something he didn't want to collide with in the dark, Sano glanced over at the other man and remarked, "You know I'll tell you what it says if you ask? You don't actually have to intercept them." 

In a tone that acknowledged the truth of this Hajime replied, "And _you_ don't have to cancel all your other plans every time you run into me." 

Sano grinned crookedly. "You were the one who just decided I'd be going home with you without even asking." 

"I assumed you'd tell me if you had other plans." 

There were a few things Sano could say in response to this. Unfortunately, _"You really think you're not first priority?"_ was probably too much of a come-on, which type of remark always seemed to irritate and put off Hajime. And, _"Funny how you assume I'll tell you things when **you** suck so much at doing that,"_ might well start an argument Sano's good mood wouldn't tolerate at the moment. So what he decided to say was, "It wasn't really plans, just 'we'll hang out if nothing else comes up.'" 

And then Hajime did that mixed message thing where he seemed silently pleased that he counted as 'something else coming up,' but would obviously get miffed and more offensive than usual if Sano were to make some leading comment about this pleasure. 

Never before had Sano gone this long liking someone without saying something openly about it, and he often wondered whether this indicated an interest stronger than or different from any previous crush, or that the two of them simply weren't meant to be more than friends. Because two months was an _extremely_ long time not to raise the issue definitively, especially with someone he saw in person with tolerable frequency; and it just wasn't his style to wait around hoping for the development of reciprocation from someone already aware he was interested. 

Admittedly logic (something that, whatever Hajime had to say about it, Sano _did_ regard) was on his side in not behaving in a manner that would push Hajime away while he waited for the jerk to return his feelings or at least explain why he never would... but it couldn't last forever. A sense of novelty hung about this unusual patience and forbearance, but even that couldn't maintain his silence indefinitely. And Sano was watching with some fascination, with a sense almost of detachment as if he were outside the situation, to see how long it would take him to snap and _demand_ Hajime like him the way he liked Hajime. 

In the meantime -- and this was undoubtedly the only reason he'd held out for so long and had any hope of continuing to do so -- he could still enjoy the exciting and not infrequently aggravating company of a man he should probably consider himself lucky to have even as a friend. 

* 

Not entirely to Hajime's pleasure, Sano was sitting there thinking about their relationship again. He did that for at least a few minutes, if not off and on the entire time, whenever they spent time together; and though he appeared aware that bringing it up aloud would be counterproductive, and though it didn't agitate his companion enough to make avoiding him a better option, Hajime still disliked it. 

The eventual decision that to state bluntly his total disinterest in romance would probably drive Sano away unhappy, and that Hajime hated that thought, had involved them in a sort of waiting game: Sano waited for Hajime to suddenly feel like falling into bed with him, and Hajime waiting for Sano to get over his infatuation. The wild card of Sano's impatience would force both of their hands sooner or later, since Hajime was never going to feel like falling into bed with Sano, and then everything would probably be ruined; so Hajime had been working to resign himself to the fact that this friendship was a temporary arrangement. And in response to this knowledge, there _might_ have been some of the dictatorial assumptions Sano always accused him of: he wouldn't waste chances to be with Sano while he still had them. 

Thinking-about-relationship time ended when Sano's friend returned his text. Incoming messages were much more difficult than outgoing ones, since, if you weren't reaching unceasingly to catch anything that appeared, you had to know when they might be coming to know when to reach at all -- it took a lot of practice to get any warning of an approaching message, and Hajime didn't quite manage to read this one. Sano's reply, an affirmative in all lower case, was easy enough, but gave no clue as to the question it answered. 

Once again Sano noticed what Hajime was up to. "I think I'm starting to see how you do that." He'd tilted his head as if a different neck angle served his magical senses better. "Sometime when you're not driving, you should text me and see if I can grab it." 

Thinking this worth immediate pursuit, Hajime pulled so abruptly into a turn lane pointing toward a gas station that Sano made a surprised noise. Soon he had the car in park and his cell phone out. He would be interested to see whether or not Sano really _could_ do this trick without ever being specifically shown how. 

Sano held his old phone closed before him, staring at it with an amusing degree of concentration, as Hajime sent his first message, and frowned slightly with effort as Hajime sent his second. His mental nets were perhaps a little too intense, certainly very unsubtle, but he did seem to have the general idea of how this worked. After an unusually long time, the dilapidated phone chimed only once. Still frowning, Sano opened it, compared the text with what he'd picked up magically, then waited impatiently for the other to arrive. As he realized the transition of service was probably just taking effect and had robbed him of the second message, at least for the moment, his frown deepened into a scowl even as some of his previous excitement about the new phone reappeared to mix with the annoyance at having the experiment interrupted. 

"I think I got both of them," he said at last. He threw his old mobile a dirty look. "But I only know for sure I was right about the first one." 

Hajime, who had already repocketed his own phone, moved to leave the parking lot. "And?" His first message had asked, _Why were you worried about spending a few hundred dollars on a computer anyway?_ The second had added, _You can't have spent all the money Gains gave you already._ Now that he was satisfied on whether or not Sano could teach himself to intercept text messages mentally, he wanted answers to his other questions as well. 

"Oh." Sano cleared his throat. "I kinda... gave half that money to Kaoru." 

It took only a moment's consideration for Hajime to reply, "I can't say that comes as a big surprise." 

"It just seemed too unfair." And Sano's quick response just seemed too defensive. "Sure, we did Gains a favor, and it was a pain in the ass -- _and_ the shoulder -- but it was his boss's fault her husband died and her life got fucked up. Why should he just give _us_ money?" 

Hajime chuckled. "Your logic's a little flawed, but I'm sure she appreciated it." 

"My logic's just fine," Sano insisted. "_You're_ just a jerk who wouldn't ever think about someone needing money in a situation like that." 

Hajime believed Sano's defensiveness resulted from an internal battle between concern for Kaoru and old indoctrination that money was to be retained as long as possible at all costs. That Hajime found Sano's hang-ups about money entertaining and more or less adorable would be taken exactly the wrong way by Sano, the exorcist knew well, and he didn't plan to mention it. Instead he said, "Just because I have no interest in being her friend -- especially since you seem to have that base covered -- doesn't mean I have absolutely no sympathy for her or her situation." 

Sano gave him a disbelieving look. "Yeah, but I don't think _you_ would have given her any of _your_ share." 

"Which would be normal behavior. You went above and beyond in your usual extravagant way; don't expect the same of me." 

"I don't," Sano muttered. 

"But in any case, even with just half the payoff left, you should still have plenty of money. Why was the computer such a problem?" 

"Because I'm trying to _save_ that other half," said Sano irritably. "You fancy exorcists with your inheritance and stocks and house that's already paid off and shit might not know what it's like for poor college students who work at a cheap-ass restaurant." 

Hajime, not bothering to point out either that his house was not, in fact, paid off, or that Sano's plurals were getting a little confused, merely laughed at him again. 

Though he opened his mouth to continue, Sano reclosed it as he seemed struck by a thought. In pensive silence he turned to his phone packaging, then the puzzle of how the battery and back cover went into or onto the device; and, though a certain interested part of his attention was genuinely caught up in getting the thing powered on, a large part of his consciousness seemed to be grinding away furiously at whatever had just occurred to him. Curious though he was, Hajime continued the drive toward his house in equal silence and relatively solid patience. 

Finally, as they entered Hajime's neighborhood, Sano said, "You know what I should do..." His tone sounded distracted, and light from the new phone glittered in his eyes, but he went on almost immediately: "I should have _you_ hold onto all the money I'm trying to save. That way, whenever I wanted to spend some of it, I'd have to tell _you_ what I wanted to buy, and then you'd give me hell about it; and plus even if I still decided to go through with it, it would be a huge pain to get the money back to my account. So I'd really have to want whatever it was, and it would force me to really think about it." 

Normally Hajime had a prompt reply for anything Sano said, even if only _"Idiot,"_ but this one required an unexpected amount of thought. In continued silence, therefore, he pulled into his driveway and shut off the car. Then he turned toward Sano. The latter appeared to have his full attention on the phone in his hands, but this did nothing to lessen the impression of sincerity in the proposal he'd made. He really had _just_ thought of this idea, given it perhaps a minute's contemplation not undivided with more frivolous thoughts, come to a conclusion, and presented it immediately to the other party involved. Perfectly simply. 

Whatever nickname Hajime chose to give him, Sano was not actually unintelligent. And that an intelligent person could reach and divulge such an important decision so quickly without seeming to worry about it at all was... well, stupid. But in a way it was also impressive. And something about such an alien manner of seeing the world, of thinking about things, fascinated Hajime, too. Stupid, impressive, fascinating... it was almost Sano himself in miniature. 

He must also consider the issue of Sano's apparent level of trust. Though Hajime remembered with unusual clarity the unhesitating way Sano had told him, _"You wouldn't have done it if you didn't think you had to,"_ in regard to a certain fairly serious injury a couple of months back, he hadn't properly recognized, even then, to what degree Sano trusted him. At the moment he had not only the evidence provided by what Sano had put forward, but a mental sense of that confidence not terribly difficult to pick up on now he actively looked for it. 

Of course Hajime had no intention of betraying or taking advantage of Sano in any way -- and didn't anticipate any unless in the unlikely event there arose some moral demand superior to that of not betraying or taking advantage of a friend -- but despite Sano's trust in him being (probably) perfectly justified, its level after this amount of time seemed easily as precipitously attained as Sano's other choices. Simultaneously, though... no matter how silly it was and no matter how logically Hajime argued against the sensation... he _liked_ it. He wasn't sure if anyone had ever trusted him to that degree, and that Sano did specifically and recognizably pleased him. 

Perhaps equally pleasing was a sense almost of domesticity about the suggested arrangement -- the idea of stronger ties to Sano and perhaps a lesser degree of brevity to their friendship than Hajime had previously been assuming. Unfortunately, despite the allure of these concepts, he couldn't fail to recognize their other implications as well. Domesticity did rather go hand-in-hand with romance, or at least often formed its natural result, and there was an almost marriage-like quality to this type of financial cooperation. Entering into this agreement would not _have_ to indicate increased interest in a romantic relationship on Hajime's part, but that indication would undoubtedly be fabricated by the eager Sano. And it was this more than any other consideration that determined Hajime against the idea. 

"No," he finally said. "No, I don't think so." 

Raising his eyes from his phone and appearing to realize for the first time that the car had stopped, Sano gave Hajime a petulant look. "Why not?" 

"You don't really need my help with this. You're perfectly capable of controlling your own spending habits." Not that the idea had been _entirely_ unreasonable... but it also wasn't necessary, and could be dangerous. 

"Hey, you just swooped in to rescue me from buying a laptop," Sano reminded him with some defiance. 

"You _wanted_ someone to swoop in. What you _really_ wanted was for someone to swoop in and give you permission to do what you already wanted to do but knew you shouldn't." 

"But I got you instead." Whether Sano considered this better or worse -- or simply different -- than whatever rescue or justification he'd subconsciously desired was not evident. "What do you think I would have done if you hadn't come along?" 

"I don't know what you _would_ have done. But I know you _could_ have made the right decision even without me." Hajime said this fairly casually, but Sano would know just how seriously he meant it. Sano's trust, and the satisfaction the offer thereof had unexpectedly raised in Hajime, deserved that serious response. More typically shallow interaction could resume afterwhile. 

"Really?" One corner of Sano's mouth and part of each of his eyebrows rose, apparently almost against his will, to change his somewhat annoyed expression into a dubious half grin. "Because I'm pretty sure you said I have a complete lack of self-control." 

"Your self-control is fine. When you're not being too lazy to bother with it." 

"Well, then," Sano demanded, both gratified and irritated, "why won't you help me with my laziness?" 

"I will." It had occurred to Hajime that, though he couldn't respond the way Sano wanted, he also couldn't respond to the not-entirely-unreasonable idea and the pleasing indication of trust with cold and complete refusal. "But not the way you suggested." He spent a lot of time shooting Sano down, but at the moment it needn't be to such a depth as was often the case. He could return haste for haste, and hopefully keep from injuring his friend more than necessary. "Here's my offer: whenever you're tempted to buy something stupid you don't need, call me." He gestured to what Sano held. "You have a phone that should be reliable at any time of day, so you'll have no excuse not to. Call me, and I'll tell you exactly what I think of whatever you're planning." 

"So you're saying... I'm allowed to call you any time of day." Sano's tone was almost perfectly flat but for the tiniest hint of skepticism. "Just... call you whenever. Doesn't matter what time it is." 

"Yes." Perhaps this had been a bit impetuous, and perhaps that worried him slightly, but Hajime held steadfastly to his stated purpose. 

"Just so we're clear: 'any time of day' means _any_ time of day?" Now a feeling of impending... something... colored Sano's voice. 

"Yes." And perhaps Hajime hadn't entirely considered the possible ramifications of this course of action... but that was the price of fast decisions. Sano probably didn't appreciate Hajime's willingness to pay that price for his sake, and would only have taken it the wrong way if he'd known. 

"So, like, three-in-the-morning any time qualifies as 'any time?'" It was _glee_ building up in there, taxiing toward a runway Hajime could practically see behind Sano's eyes. 

"Yes." 

"All twenty-four hours? For real?" 

"Yes." 

A sudden suspicion seemed to put a momentary brake on the takeoff. "But you'll have your phone off half the time." 

"I won't. Why would I miss a chance to tell you you're an idiot? You call, I'll answer." 

And they had left the ground. Sano made not the faintest attempt to hide the pleasure this exchange gave him: his mouth spread into a wide grin, his eyes crinkled at the edges, his entire body seemed invigorated by his rising elation. "Really? Even if you're in the middle of something?" 

Hajime nodded. Unwarranted as this level of happiness seemed at the promise of something so simple, so nearly meaningless, it was nothing but a joy to observe. He'd always loved to observe Sano's emotions, and the contagion of his happiness in particular was at times only just short of thrilling. 

"What if you're meeting with a client or something? Or in the shower? What if you're on another call?" 

Again Hajime nodded. And maybe an offer like this, and the exercise of Hajime's apparently stupidly great influence over Sano's mood, provided the young man with undue encouragement -- though not nearly as much as Sano's suggestion, had Hajime accepted it, probably would have -- but Hajime couldn't regret having excited such felicity even if it did. 

"What if you're in the middle of a nail-trim on Misao?" 

Here Hajime hesitated. Of course the perseverent Sano would find an exception. "If I actually have Misao pinned down so she can't move, I may not answer the phone even for you." 

"Man, I wish someone had been around to take _that_ out of context -- hey!" Abruptly Sano started laughing, and his late exclamation indicated it wasn't so much at the notion of someone getting incorrect ideas about who and what Misao was and what Hajime might be inclined to do to her as at some new thought. And eventually he had to be prodded, since, though Hajime _had_ been practicing getting at people's thoughts in spite of their mental barriers, he hadn't mastered the technique yet. But in response to an impatient demand, Sano seemed perfectly willing to share: "I'm going to give Misao my old phone." 

To Hajime this intrigued more than amused, since chances were that having her own phone would deter Misao from climbing people trying to get at theirs. He didn't really mind her climbing in general, but sometimes her interjections into serious conversations, such as with potential clients, were somewhat problematic. "Not a bad idea," he told Sano. "But you'll have to remind her what will happen to it if she constantly leaves it where I'm going to step on it." 

"Yeah, yeah, I'll remind her you're an unforgiving tyrant," Sano promised. Neither his broad grin nor his overflowing happiness had faded. "Come on, let's go tell her." As he reached for the door with one hand, the other held up his new phone so he could glance at it once more before leaving the car. And the look he gave it seemed extraordinarily pleased, now for more than one reason. 

Was the assurance of an answer to a call at any time really so wonderful? Wonderful enough to make Sano completely abandon his previous idea with no apparent regret? Though Hajime loved to see Sano happy, he doubted the rationality of the origin of that emotion. Sano clearly read more into this than was intended. But that had been inevitable, and Hajime still couldn't truly regret it. Their interaction could only ever be full of mismatches, and Hajime thought it was probably worth it. 

So he disembarked with a faint smile at the pleased agitation of the young man waiting now beside the kitchen door, took up his shopping bags from the back seat, and headed toward the house and an evening that both he and his companion were likely to enjoy despite any possible -- even probable -- ambivalence to the proceedings.


	153. Get Used to That

He supposed he could safely say he felt a bit nervous. These sensations weren't precisely what he would have _called_ nervousness, under most circumstances and especially if taken out of context; but the fact that sensations existed at all, that his mind kept returning to the project throughout the day, seemed a positive enough sign that he was, in fact, nervous. 

Not that Quatre had never before had a day during which he thought more about Trowa than about work; but he _had_ considered himself mostly on top of that by now. It was June... he and Trowa had been together for more than two months... all that new-relationship distraction should be about over. 

But this relationship had so many _steps_ to be taken. And just as he sometimes found himself, at home, unable to escape what occupied him at work, it wasn't really _too_ surprising to find something that meant so much more to him so fixedly on his mind at moments when it probably shouldn't have been. 

He'd planned today carefully, or at least with a great deal of anticipation. Though he hadn't quite been able to bring himself to enter it in his calendar, the app for that purpose on his phone had a 'sticker' function he didn't frequently use that allowed him to put a little heart on the day without affixing any sort of label and thereby putting his intention in writing. Not that he wasn't committed; it just wasn't the type of thing he could stand to have spelled out staring him in the face every time he checked his schedule. And what if someone else had seen it? Impossible. 

Having thus been looking forward to this for quite a few days prior, he felt _he_ had prepared about as well as he could for what he planned. The problem was that little could be done to prepare _Trowa_. The best Quatre could hope for was trying to keep Trowa comfortable and at ease during all their interactions that evening, being sure to ask of him (or even hint at) nothing difficult or intimidating. 

Upon his arrival shortly after work, he made it casually clear that he planned on staying the night, in order that, though this was nothing unusual on a Friday, any lingering awkwardness Trowa might feel about such things -- and Quatre knew a touch of that remained -- would hopefully have faded by the time questions came up. Then, instead of inflicting something microwaveable on his boyfriend, he'd called a relatively nice restaurant for take-out and stopped for it on his way home. This was no time to ignore potential snags, and Quatre admitted to his culinary weakness. Trowa knew that weakness as well, but, ever the gentleman, made no fuss about it... but if he didn't have to suffer a mediocre dinner tonight, so much the better. 

The stage thus set, Quatre had a pleasant meal at his boyfriend's 50's table and pleasant conversation with his much more extensively decaded boyfriend, and only hoped he spoke naturally and engagingly and not like someone with a devious scheme for later that night. Then, as a sort of final preparatory touch, he brought up a couple of specific questions about magic that necessitated a lecture and a demonstration -- which had the dual benefit of making Trowa feel like the confident expert he was, and being something Quatre happened to enjoy quite a bit for its own sake. 

The grandfather clock in the entry declared it just past midnight when, the interesting magical discussion finished, they settled into the ugly chair as they so often did, and their talk became aimless and diffuse. This stage of proceedings often lasted for an hour or more before bed finally called them, especially if Quatre dozed while Trowa got distracted by the various engrossing things in his study, but tonight Quatre simply awaited his moment. And when he judged it had come, he didn't hesitate to make his move: 

"How would you feel about topping tonight?" 

"About... what?" 

"Being on top. Penetrating. Fucking me." 

In no way could he have missed the abrupt stiffening of Trowa's entire frame in response to the question, but what he caught less easily (though still in time to see it) was the look of near-panic that briefly crossed Trowa's previously complacent face. However, all Trowa said, in an admirable imitation of calm, was, "I'm afraid I wouldn't be any good at it." 

'Afraid,' Quatre thought, was the key word. Trowa feared hurting him, feared doing something wrong that might push Quatre away, feared not being spectacularly good at something for once and losing something he cared about as a result. 

"And _I'm_ sure you'll do just fine," Quatre replied, in a tone he hoped would reassure despite its lightness. 

"I wouldn't have any idea how." 

Quatre restrained himself from laughing. "It isn't difficult," he said solemnly. "I promise." 

Hesitantly Trowa smiled a little. "No, I suppose not. But..." 

"And I _know_ you'll enjoy it." 

Trowa's smile, though still reluctant, grew. "It isn't _my_ enjoyment I'm worried about." 

If it hadn't been for that little smile, or if Trowa had made any more serious objections, Quatre wouldn't have pushed -- all careful forethought, calendar stickers, and anticipation notwithstanding. As it was, he believed only Trowa's self-doubt stood in the way here and only needed to be brazened through. 

Trowa had been improving in recent weeks at taking initiative -- quite a bit, in fact: ever since the curse had broken, Quatre might have been able to chart a steady upward line on a graph to represent his progress. One day recently, in fact, Trowa had taken him completely and beautifully by surprise when out of the blue he'd suggested a walk through his own town, where he'd kissed Quatre almost three times in relatively public places of his own volition. But he'd never indicated interest in any sort of role reversal in bed, or even seemed to be aware such a possibility existed. And while Quatre was perfectly happy to do all the penetrating if Trowa preferred him to, he feared Trowa was missing out on that enjoyable experience simply because he hesitated, for various reasons, to make any kind of change in arrangements. 

"You're worrying over nothing," he said, "since I'm pretty sure I would enjoy lying still and watching paint dry with you." 

"I'd be a lot more sure of myself watching paint dry," replied Trowa. "I could _make_ paint dry by--" 

Quatre cut him off with a laugh, which made his, "Seriously, Trowa," seem a little incongruous. "You have nothing to worry about." 

Trowa didn't look entirely convinced, and Quatre decided to pull out the big guns. Not the puppy-dog eyes this time, either; he would skip that and go straight to what he hoped would put a quick and decisive end to the debate. Shifting in the chair, running one hand up Trowa's neck and into his hair and putting his lips against Trowa's ear, he murmured, "You know, ever since our first time, I've been _dying_ to feel you inside me." Briefly he mouthed the cartilage and closed his teeth gently on the lobe before applying his final persuasive statement: "You don't even have to use a condom." 

Trowa's eyes were wide when Quatre pulled back far enough to see them. "You _always_ use a condom." 

"Yes, but I just got tested, and everything's fine... and I was your first." 

"You're sure I wasn't lying about that?" 

Quatre raised an eyebrow. "Why would you lie about that?" 

Even in the midst of his continual wide-eyed state at Quatre's epic pronouncement, Trowa looked thoughtful. "I can think of half a dozen reasons offhand." 

"And I'm sure they're all very silly." Annoyed that his big guns hadn't been as effective as he'd hoped and expected, Quatre yet attempted to keep it out of his voice. If Trowa _really_ didn't want to try this tonight, there was nothing Quatre could do about it. Not that he would give up in the long term... but he would be disappointed this evening. 

Faintly, perhaps a little nervously, Trowa chuckled. Then, after several silent moments during which he took as many deep breaths impossible to hide from Quatre, who'd settled down against him again, he said all at once, "I'll do whatever you want. Whenever you want me to." 

Again Quatre sat up, drawing back and looking into Trowa's face. He'd learned not to question his lover's made-up mind, but he couldn't help searching the now-relatively-impassive features for signs Trowa might already be regretting those words. He found none; he hadn't really expected any, but still he'd had to check. 

"Well," he said, licking his lips as he pulled back a little in preparation for moving from the chair, "let's go." 

"Now?" It wasn't the same level of panic as before, and Trowa quelled it much more quickly, but it remained quite visible. 

"You _just_ said, 'whenever I wanted you to,'" Quatre replied, both smile and tone a mixture of kindness and suggestivity. "And the truth is, I _always_ want you to. It's just less likely to happen, say, at work, or while I'm out jogging, or something." 

"Always?" At this, Trowa seemed slightly less intimidated, and even moved more or less willingly when Quatre pulled him to his feet out of the chair. 

"Always," reiterated Quatre into his ear. "You have no idea how much I enjoy prostate stimulation." It was, quite possibly, his favorite physical sensation, but he would save that revelation for next time. 

With a blush that turned his freckles a deep burgundy, Trowa admitted, "I certainly won't deny that _I_ enjoy that..." 

Quatre raised a brow. "Then don't you think I deserve a turn?" 

And that did it. Though Quatre's voice had been facetious, still definitely in the realm of flirtation and lightness so as not to make Trowa feel unduly pressured, even just the hint of an accusation of unfairness apparently tipped Trowa's mental scales. 

"Yes," Trowa said determinedly, "you do." And he didn't even add, as Quatre had been more than half expecting, some nonsense about Quatre deserving it better than Trowa could give it to him. He only accompanied Quatre into the bedroom with the air of one ready to do his best regardless, at least for the moment, of whether or not it would be good enough. 

* 

Trowa had a fairly rigid set of superlatives, and felt himself in a decent position to consider them unlikely to change. Having lived over a hundred years, having endured decades of crushing remorse and despair, having felt that burden lifted in a blinding moment beyond all hope, it was no difficult task to assign _best_ and _worst_ to various experiences he'd had. And therefore he couldn't say this had been the best night of his life, or even the best hour of his life. 

But it had been pretty damn close. 

After a period much longer than usual of sweaty entanglement and calming breaths that in their turn retained a hint of voice much longer than usual, Quatre had risen for his accustomed tidying and preparations for sleep, and Trowa watched him with a greater or at least more minute attention than on most nights. He couldn't help noticing Quatre moving differently, walking perhaps a little stiffly; and that couldn't be anything but Trowa's fault. Quatre had promised it wasn't difficult, which had turned out to be essentially the case, but perhaps Trowa had done something wrong after all. 

But a tight and anxious expression had barely begun to elbow its way past what he'd been wearing ('dazed euphoria') when he also began to notice that Quatre's altered movements included a sort of continual stretching or shifting seemingly aimed at recapturing certain lost or fading sensations; and that his face, when visible between having his back to the bed and having turned off all the lights, bore an intense look of weary ecstasy, even triumph, that seemed to declare inarguably all was well. 

Despite this, Trowa couldn't be certain what he should say as Quatre returned to his side and started arranging bedding and body parts to his own satisfaction and comfort. _Something_ should be said to let Quatre know he'd been right, that Trowa really _had_ enjoyed this as much as Quatre had believed he would... and if Trowa could work up the nerve, there was even some teasing he'd like to enact... but how to begin? 

Quatre, however, didn't give him time. "Normally," he started before even completely settled against Trowa, "I don't take things guys say in the middle of sex too seriously, especially that particular thing, but I can't help asking..." He finished in a quieter tone that sounded simultaneously pleased and hopeful, and yet surprisingly questioning and tentative: "You said you love me?" 

"Was that a bad moment for it?" 

Quatre seemed to be attempting to restrain his laughter, but it didn't work. Finally he remarked, "You know, sometimes I'm pretty sure at least some of your lack of self-confidence is put on, because I think that's the most ridiculous question you've ever asked me." 

It interested Trowa to hear his lover laughing at him, essentially making fun of him, and to have it be nevertheless so completely without sting. And Quatre had such a pleasant laugh... Trowa smiled a little as he began sheepishly, "Well, I haven't--" 

But Quatre interrupted him with, "Did you not notice that orgasm I had because you said that? Not that I wouldn't have come eventually -- because _damn_, Trowa -- but, yes, I'd say that was a _very_ good moment to say it." 

Trowa liked all of that very much. "'Damn?'" he said. "Really?" 

With grinning impatience Quatre replied, "Yes, damn, but don't change the subject. You said you love me." 

"I did," Trowa agreed gravely. He was teasing Quatre by hedging, but he was also giving himself time to think. 

He saw the wisdom in disregarding, to some extent, something someone said during sex. His statement had indeed been born of physical ecstasy, and his mind had been more than a bit of a jumble at the time. However, it took only a moment's uncomplicated reflection to decide it hadn't been at all inaccurate. Of course he loved Quatre. 

"And I do." He would have thought it might be difficult to say aloud, this statement that bound him so much more closely to another person than he'd ever been, this declaration he had never made to anyone, even back when it might have been called for; but it turned out to be remarkably easy. "I do love you." 

"Oh, good," Quatre breathed, sounding for a moment very childlike and squeezing Trowa tightly. "I don't know what I would have said otherwise. It's always awkward to be in love with someone who doesn't love you back." 

The multiform implications of this statement at first too greatly overwhelmed Trowa for him to say anything, but since one of them was that Quatre loved him in return, he tightened his embrace and buried his face in Quatre's hair. He knew by now precisely what kind of hair products Quatre used, since various bottles had aggregated in his bathroom for those times (more and more frequent) when Quatre didn't feel like going to his own house... but he was never prepared for the way they mixed together with Quatre's natural scents. And that lovely smell combined with the headiness of the exchange they'd just had -- not to mention the afterglow nowhere near fading yet -- rendered Trowa about as dizzy as he thought it possible to be while lying flat and still. Here was, perhaps, another superlative, though he wasn't in any state to categorize it at the moment. 

Quatre murmured something incoherent against the skin of Trowa's chest, sounding very content. 

After a short period, however, another implication of the latest statement prompted Trowa to ask what he'd been wondering since: "How often, exactly, have you been in love with someone who didn't love you back?" 

"Only a couple of times," Quatre said, and faint suspicion sounded in his tone. "Why?" 

Trowa still felt nervous at the thought that Quatre had been with many other men in the past and could at any given moment be comparing his current boyfriend unfavorably with previous, more experienced lovers -- but he planned not to admit it. Even if Quatre didn't already know about this insecurity in him (and Trowa was sure he did), Trowa didn't want him to have to deal with it. He wanted to move beyond needing Quatre's reassurance on every little thing, wanted to be able to overcome emotional failings on his own. Quatre had given every indication of being perfectly satisfied with the current arrangements, so why should Trowa assume any kind of unflattering comparison was or would ever be occurring in his head? 

So Trowa gave a much more light-hearted answer in response to the question. "Maybe I'm a little jealous of anyone else you've ever been in love with." 

"Mmm," Quatre said, "jealous, are you?" He sounded unexpectedly pleased with this. "Even after the way you blew my mind a few minutes ago?" 

Trowa blushed. 

Quatre went on more quietly, more seriously. "You might like to know, though... this isn't like any relationship I've been in before, and the way I feel about you isn't like how I've felt about anyone else." 

Blush growing hotter, in conjunction with a burning sensation in his chest and an increase in heart-rate he believed Quatre must also be able to feel, Trowa shuffled vaguely through a number of responses that came to mind. Most of them were self-deprecating, and perhaps he didn't entirely believe those anymore, so he just said, in perfect honesty, "Thank you; I _do_ like to know that." 

After nuzzling Trowa briefly with face and shoulders, Quatre lay still, and neither of them said anything for a while. Trowa didn't think they were making any significant progress toward sleep, though; there was too much to ponder. Too many thoughts that set him on fire for sleep. He was in love, and, as far as he could tell, doing it right this time -- or, at the very least, better than before (though, honestly, it would have been difficult to do it _worse_ than before). 

And he also hadn't lost track of the need to give his boyfriend a hard time on one particular subject. 

"Now you can check this off," he finally said into the darkness. 

"What?" 

"'Have Trowa say he loves me.' I'm sure it must have been on your list." 

Quatre gave a very sheepish laugh and cleared his throat. "Actually it wasn't. You took me completely by surprise." And without bothering to deny that he did, in fact, have a list, he added, "But 'Get Trowa to top' definitely was." 

"You could add it just for the sake of checking it off. Or are all the list items sexual in nature?" 

"Only some of them. The real problem is that it isn't a written list, exactly." 

"I'd like to know what's on it, though," Trowa mused, "if only to brace myself for what else I have to do." 

In a tone that clearly said, _I can't **believe** you're teasing me about this_, Quatre replied, "I'll try to give you fair warning. We can discuss items when they appear." 

"In scheduled meetings," was Trowa's solemn elaboration on this formal-sounding idea, "where hopefully I'm allowed to make suggestions as well." 

"Of course you are!" Quatre seemed simultaneously embarrassed that he'd been called out on having an active list of ways to improve Trowa and their relationship, and appalled at the suggestion Trowa might not be allowed to contribute. 

"Then how about 'Have Trowa say he loves me twice in one day?'" 

Sounding suddenly very relieved, though not yet entirely free of guilt, Quatre said, "That one I would be happy to put on there just for the sake of crossing it off." 

"Well, I love you." Not for the first time, Trowa wondered at the circumstance of being the one to offer rather than receive reassurance, regardless of the fact that he'd been the one to bring up the troublesome topic. "Even if you're trying to run my life. Perhaps _because_ you're trying to run my life." 

"I do that to people," Quatre half sighed. "It's a good thing I'm a manager at work, because otherwise I'd be fired for trying to act like one anyway." 

"Please don't change on my account. In fact, just don't change. I think we were in this same spot when you told me not to change certain things you liked about me, so let me return the compliment: you're wonderful exactly as you are." 

Quatre laughed and rubbed affectionately against Trowa again, but there remained some protest in his tone as he said, "But it's a little unfair." Then after a moment of thoughtful silence he added, "Maybe you should have a turn at that too." 

"At trying to run my life?" Trowa wondered, surprised and amused. "Or trying to run yours?" 

"I expect you to run your own life," Quatre said sternly, "with or without my meddling. No, I meant mine. Why don't you suggest something? Right now. Tell me something to do with myself." Though these last few statements sounded mostly playful, an underlying sincerity to Quatre's tone indicated Trowa shouldn't dismiss this as meaningless banter. 

So he made the first suggestion he could think of: "Why don't we take a cooking class together?" 

There followed a longer period of differently flavored silence, as if Quatre had been completely blindsided by the idea. Of course this raised immediate consternation in Trowa; it had been a dangerous position Quatre had put him in, and he should have given more consideration to how he responded. But then Quatre rolled over and started laughing uncontrollably into the pillow. 

This muffled uproar didn't last very long, but it was enough for Trowa to relax and smile. Quatre truly had a charming laugh, regardless of how much bedding it was filtered through. 

Then Quatre turned again and slid right up against Trowa, wrapping his arms back around him. "Yes," he gasped, "yes, I think we should definitely take a cooking class together. I love you. Heero will be jealous." 

Assuming he meant Heero would be jealous about the cooking class, not that Heero would be jealous because Quatre loved Trowa, the latter nevertheless replied a little aloofly, "Heero can find his own." 

"Mmm," said Quatre appreciatively. "So authoritative of you." 

"Hmm," Trowa replied, pulling Quatre closer in his appreciation of Quatre's appreciation. "Maybe I could get used to that." 

"I know _I_ could." Now Quatre's tone had changed, and the motion of the hand that had previously lain still on Trowa's chest indicated the direction things would go if he had his way. Against the skin just beneath Trowa's ear he murmured, "What about 'Have Trowa top twice in one day?'" 

Loving both the vibrations of Quatre's voice and the movement of his hand, but not entirely sure about the words, Trowa hesitated. "Go ahead and add that to the list," he said slowly. "But don't count on crossing it off right now." 

"Well, it's always nice to have something to work on." Quatre didn't sound at all perturbed, despite the obvious interest with which he'd made the proposal. "It keeps away boredom." 

Perfectly recognizing the facetiousness of this statement, Trowa absolutely refused to grant entry to a sudden new worry that Quatre might get bored with him. There, he really was improving. A month ago, that thought would have haunted him all night. 

Tonight, as they moved away from the cerebral exchange toward a more physical one, and in so doing essentially managed to confirm or at least supplement everything that had previously been said, Trowa couldn't help thinking -- when he could think at all -- that Quatre, as usual, was right: things didn't have to be perfect yet; just having something to work on was nearly as satisfying as a superlative.


	154. Reciprocity

It defied logic for an object lacking voice or facial features to express emotions, but somehow, looking at it, Heero read annoyance and frustration pretty clearly without needing a human face to read them in. He couldn't help smiling; hand-held can openers _were_ a bit of a bother before you figured them out. He'd found the electric kind so unreliable, though, that he'd sworn them off years ago. Duo would simply have to get used to it. 

He hadn't heard a sound since entering the apartment, but considered it unlikely Duo would be out; so he recovered the can opener from where it had evidently been tossed down with some force into the corner at the far side of the counter, and started his search. Before he could even peek into any of the rooms down the hall, though, he caught sight of what he sought on the balcony at the end. 

As he drew nearer, he observed that Duo, seated against the outside wall beside the glass door, was eating black olives from a can, which solved that mystery. A G.E.D. study guide, only a couple of weeks old yet already somewhat ragged-edged, lay across his lap, and his new sparkly green iPod sat on top of that. His bare feet, down at the end of long, full-stretched legs, twitched rhythmically back and forth, presumably to the beat of whatever he was listening to -- he'd been downloading anything and everything in the last few weeks -- and as Heero opened the door Duo added to this time-keeping operation by tapping out the rhythm on his book with the highlighter in his hand. 

"Oh, hey!" Duo looked up with a surprised smile as Heero stepped onto the balcony. He pulled the headphones from his ears, and would have risen if Heero hadn't dropped down beside him as he closed the door. "Is it that late?" Duo added, sounding pleased, after which his mouth was busy and he couldn't say anything more for several long moments. He tasted like olives. 

Finally Heero sat back from the hello kiss and remarked, gesturing at the can, "You got them open eventually, I see." 

"_With magic_," replied Duo belligerently. "That goddamned torture device was _not_ cooperating." 

"This one?" Heero held up the can opener. 

"Yes!" Duo yelped. "Can I throw it?" 

Heero laughed. "No. Here, let me show you..." He pulled the olives closer, then slowly demonstrated how the can opener worked -- incompletely, of course, since this particular can already showed a clean open edge. 

Duo watched with suspicious eyes, and eventually remarked dubiously, "It kinda crawls along there, doesn't it? Sorta eats its way around the top of the can." He sounded as if he wanted to give the device another chance, but had been too wounded by its betrayal to trust again so soon. 

"Now you try," Heero urged, reaching for one of Duo's hands to place it on the rubber-coated handles of the can opener. 

Grumbling and still suspicious, Duo nevertheless allowed Heero to guide his fingers through the process a couple of times. He seemed to develop some reluctant admiration for the object's design, but obviously remained a little wary of it even when the tutoring session had ended. 

"I may keep opening stuff with magic for a while," he said, and for a few tense moments followed the can opener with his eyes as Heero set it aside next to the nearly-depleted olives. "Speaking of which..." Relaxing, Duo leaned to move the two items entirely out of the space between himself and his boyfriend -- his touch on the can opener, the amused Heero noted, still gingerly -- and gestured. "Now come here." And he tugged at Heero's arm. 

Heero obeyed, and found himself, at Duo's direction, leaning close against him. When Duo said, "I'll show you something," Heero could feel the vibrations of his speech through the hand that Duo had pulled to his chest. 

"All right." It came out in a murmur, which seemed somehow to fit the snugness of their new position. 

Duo went on, now no longer speaking English. "Let me say, everyone who's got magical abilities has a magical or psychic center 'round about here." 

Heero had no problem at all understanding the magical language, and as Duo spoke he could sense something a little different than before through his palm and fingers. It resembled the vibrations of Duo's regular speech, but Heero thought he felt them on another, deeper level. 

"Let me say, if you can find that center in yourself and sorta talk through it, it'll come out in the magical language, and anyone with magical abilities will be able to understand you." 

It made him shiver, and, as Duo continued, Heero couldn't help feeling as if they two were connected on a new and deeper level as well. He remembered ascribing a certain intimacy to the idea that Duo had been the one to awaken his magical abilities; evidently he hadn't been too far off the mark. 

"Let me say, you have to speak through your magical center to cast spells, too, so finding it's pretty important if you're going to be doing magic." 

Heero dropped his head to rest against Duo's shoulder and closed his eyes. He thought he could feel a faint resonance inside his own chest responding to that in Duo's; it fascinated and excited and disconcerted him. 

"Let me say, can you feel that?" 

"Why do you keep starting all your sentences like that?" Heero wondered quietly, eyes still closed. 

"Let me say, to make sure I don't cast any actual spells by accident. Let me say, this way I'm structuring my sentences so they're pretty much just a spell commanding me to say what I'm saying." 

Heero nodded minutely. "Why is the magical center in the chest?" he asked next. "Is it associated with a particular organ?" 

In English this time, Duo answered, "You'd have to ask Trowa about that one." 

Heero raised his head again to look Duo in the eye with a slight smile. "I prefer learning from you," he said, and kissed him. 

Some time later, still in English, Duo echoed Heero's earlier suggestion: "Now you try it." 

"Do what, exactly?" It didn't sound in his voice, but Heero couldn't be 100% comfortable about this. He had, after all, recently witnessed the tail-end of a conspicuous example of magic gone very, very wrong. That Duo himself wasn't more wary of amateur magic use at this point might have been a surprise if Heero hadn't already become perfectly accustomed to his attitude. 

"Just try to feel your magical center," Duo replied somewhat vaguely, "and see if you can talk through it." 

"All right..." Heero closed his eyes again and concentrated, simultaneously silently predicting that his nervousness would render him completely unable to pull this off. He _thought_ he retained awareness of the not-entirely-physical area of his chest he'd felt vibrating in response to Duo's earlier words, but he couldn't quite get mental hold of what it would take to 'talk through it.' "Say something else," he requested of Duo, who complied. 

And as Duo started to 'Let me say' through the lyrics of some absurd song that was popular at the moment, which sounded even more idiotic when chanted in the magical language, and placed a hand over Heero's heart to mirror the one of Heero's that lay atop his own, Heero found that nervousness was not the emotion likely to get in the way here. He tried to concentrate again on the resonance Duo's speech caused within him, but Duo's voice and his warm hand were simply too distracting. 

Finally Heero gave a faint, helpless laugh. "I don't think this is going to work right now." 

Duo broke off his lyric recitation and wondered, "Oh?" 

"Because it's making me want you like mad," Heero confessed. 

"Justin Bieber?" said Duo skeptically. "I'll have to remember that." 

Heero chuckled. "Let's just say even he couldn't make me not want you." 

"Oh, well done!" Duo complimented this statement with a laugh. Then he asked slyly, "So what are you going to do about it?" 

"Nothing, at the moment," Heero said with a sigh. "We'll have to try this again later when we have more time." 

"Oh, that's right," Duo recollected in disappointment: "suits." 

Heero nodded against Duo's shoulder; then, because he simply couldn't help it, he turned to mouth Duo's neck. 

Duo let out a pleased breath and said in a tone half serious, half silly, and all suggestive, "We'll put off the _magic_ 'til tonight, then." 

Less than a month remained before Relena's wedding, and Heero and Duo had fittings scheduled today for the necessary attire. Tempting though it was to forget all about that and pursue, as Duo had said, magic of various types, Heero knew his mother would go into meltdown if she found out he'd put off reserving his tux. 

"Consider yourself booked for tonight, then," he said, withdrawing reluctantly from his comfortable position against his boyfriend and moving to rise. 

Duo groped him on the way up. "Consider it considered." After which, thankfully, they managed to get Duo shod and the both of them out of the apartment without _too_ much more Justin Bieber, though Heero had a sinking suspicion he hadn't heard the last of that. 

A preference for jewel tones had already been established on Duo's part, and Heero began to suspect him of a preference for the jewels themselves as well as Duo _ooh_ed and _ahh_ed over a line of shirts with sparkly decorated collar points. Finished with his own fitting, which had been quick and easy, Heero watched Duo's with a smile but without a word. He wouldn't try to talk Duo out of the blingy shirt he had his eye on (nor the tie and vest with glittery stripes to match), and in fact was ready to buy him whatever he wanted. 

Duo looked so damn good in everything, and watching him try things on was a wonderful experience -- and not just because Heero adored every detail of his body. Duo struck poses for the mirrors and quoted movie lines he thought were appropriate (though they usually weren't) and generally made an adorable goof of himself. And the dawning realization displayed by the employee helping him that he had a gay couple in his dressing room was amusing too -- in a different, tiresome sort of way. 

Near the end of the process, oddly enough, Billy Joel's _My Life_ began playing from Heero's pocket. In some confusion he fished out his phone while Duo tried for a straight face as he said, "That's one of your parents." 

Heero did remember eventually that Duo had been playing with his phone the other night, and admired what a quick learner his boyfriend had proven. Duo had once said he didn't think he'd ever get used to cell phones, and now here he was assigning custom ringtones. 

Despite its unexpected trappings, the call itself came as no surprise. Mrs. Yuy considered all wedding preparations as her immediate jurisdiction, and the acquisition of suits was no exception even though it technically had nothing to do with her. Naturally she would want to check to make sure this phase of the operation proceeded according to plan. 

"Hello, mama," Heero greeted her, more or less amiably. 

"Heero? Hello. How are you doing?" 

"Great," he replied truthfully. "How are you?" 

"We're well. Your father has decided to take up golfing. Are you getting your tuxedo today?" 

Unfazed by her topic roulette, nothing atypical of her, Heero informed her of his current location. 

"No problems getting the same style as your father's?" 

"No." They'd only been over this a dozen times. 

"And your friend is there too? Getting his suit?" She rarely used Duo's name, and the term 'boyfriend' was absolutely beyond her, but that she acknowledged his existence at all was something of a miracle. 

"That's right." 

"Good. You wrote down the colors to match?" 

"Yes, mama. There won't be any problems." 

"Good. And you two are coming to dinner on Sunday, aren't you?" 

There was an even bigger miracle. Heero marveled at how happily he could give an affirmative when just two months before it had made him cringe. So far it turned out the steady-boyfriend theory had been correct, and things had progressed very much as Relena had predicted: stiff and awkward, though not necessarily antagonistic, at first, and then (more quickly than he would have dared hope) increasingly easy. 

Whether it was because his parents were charmed by Duo's persistently ingratiating and entertaining ways, or because they saw how happy he'd made Heero, or because they simply didn't have the energy to hold out in the face of Heero's determination to live the way he thought appropriate (not to mention the support of those around him), or some combination of these, things were gradually, miraculously getting better. And now they'd even reached the point where Mrs. Yuy would declare it "Good" in her sharply friendly tone that he and Duo were coming to dinner. 

Of course it would have been impossible for them not to like Duo himself, so that was nothing spectacular; and they still seemed to avoid thinking of him as Heero's boyfriend as much as they could, treating him rather as if he were merely a good friend of both their children, which was less than ideal... but there was no denying things _were_ getting better. 

Duo could tell, too. When Heero hung up from the conversation with his mother, he found him grinning, and clearly not solely because of the sneakily altered ringtone. As usual, Duo had been able to pick up the mood of the discussion despite its being in Japanese and only half audible, and approved of what he'd heard. 

Heero smiled back. His gratitude to Duo for this circumstance just added another item to a growing list of reasons he rejoiced at having Duo in his life. The former doll hadn't exactly done it as a favor -- except as far as Duo went out of his way to be even more likeable than usual around the Yuy parents -- but that didn't lessen Heero's appreciation. He would share all of this with Duo one of these days, but not yet -- at least not in these terms -- since he feared it would correspond undesirably with an unfortunate attitude he already thought he perceived in Duo. 

That perception only strengthened when he paid the bill at the outfitters. Heero was renting his tux, since he had no routine need for it; but a nice suit was something useful to own, so he'd bought one for Duo... and Duo was making the same face he always did when Heero spent money on him or assisted him in some aspect of human life, be it as significant as helping him get registered as a patient at a doctor's office or as small as demonstrating proper handling of a can opener. 

The expression displayed displeasure, almost disapproval, that overrode Duo's simultaneous gratitude and fondness and seemed to be immediately calculating how to shift the balance of the situation. And if the setting had been right he would have tried: shown Heero something magical or volunteered for some household chore... actions not at all objectionable in themselves, but the motives behind which Heero had begun to question. 

It was time they did something about this. 

* 

Heero was onto him. 

Even after a month and a half, Duo had not yet readjusted to humanity, and having facial expressions, and all that, and he hadn't been able to hide it, and Heero had noticed. He got this impression, anyway, based on the look Heero gave him on the way out of the store. But instead of commenting, at least for the moment, Heero paused outside and glanced around. 

"You've never had bubble tea," he declared. He didn't have to ask; to a certain extent -- particularly when it came to food -- he was familiar with Duo's entire range of human experiences. 

"Nope. Never heard of it." 

Heero pointed to the strip mall's next business over, which, indeed, bore a sign reading 'Bubble Tea' in puffy colorful lettering. "Want to try it?" 

"Yes," replied Duo at once. "What is it?" 

Heero began walking in the direction of the adjacent shop. "It's weird," he said unhelpfully. "I think you'll like it." 

The little store, decorated in an eclectic style Duo associated with Chinese restaurants, featured a complicated list of flavors that occupied him for several minutes. Though he didn't know yet what precisely he would be ordering, he eventually chose strawberry-banana, and the lady behind the counter set to work making some kind of smoothie for him in addition to the avocado-vanilla one Heero had already requested. He and Heero were discussing weddings, not terribly intensively, while the woman worked, until Duo suddenly broke off what he was saying to hiss, wide-eyed, at his boyfriend, "What is she putting in there? What is that stuff?" 

Heero just smiled enigmatically. 

The cup he eventually received had a thin sheet of plastic sealed across the top, which made it possible for Duo to turn it all around, peering suspiciously inside, without worrying about spilling. This didn't prevent him from pouting a bit (for all he tried not to) as he watched Heero pay for the drinks, but soon he returned his attention to the mysterious objects at the bottom of the smoothie. They looked like black marbles. 

After offering Duo a hugely wide, green-striped straw, Heero headed out the door into the warm June dusk once again. Duo nearly tripped on the mat and ran into someone as he followed, so riveted was he on the drink in his hand. Once outside (and out of the path of other customers), they paused so Heero could demonstrate how to puncture the plastic covering with the pointed end of the straw. Then he stood still sipping his own drink and watching Duo expectantly. 

It tasted like strawberry... strawberry-banana... banana... and then...! Duo choked, trying to drink, chew, and laugh through his surprise at the same time. This only made him laugh (and choke) more, which induced a nearly similar reaction in Heero as the latter handed over a couple of napkins he'd had the prescience to obtain inside. 

"They're... squishy... what the hell..." Without looking, Duo mopped up what he'd spewed down his front, still laughing and coughing. 

"You missed some," Heero grinned, pointing. 

It was a good thing they'd already gotten the fitting-room portion of the day out of the way. As he entered a second round of napkin application to his newly-spotted shirt, Duo finally managed a complete sentence. "What _are_ those?" 

"It's tapioca." 

"Like in pudding?" Duo laughed. "Whose idea was it to put _that_ in a drink?" And he looked askance down his straw; now he recognized the reason for its diameter. 

Heero shrugged. "Do you not like it?" 

Thoughtfully Duo took another drink, at the same moment tossing the napkins into a trash can by the door. And after a very intense and serious assessment, he laughed again, less disastrously this time, and commented, "Yes, I like it! It's hilarious! But I think 'weird' wasn't quite strong enough, before." 

"Good," Heero said with a smile. Then he gestured to stop Duo from taking a seat at the little table just outside the shop. "Let's go sit in the car." 

Duo tried not to wince as he agreed. Mr. Privacy would only want to go sit in the car for the sake of a personal conversation. Which meant he really had noticed. And Duo wouldn't try to keep anything from him; he probably shouldn't have kept it to himself to begin with -- they'd had enough of that back in April. 

Despite bracing himself, as they crossed the parking lot, for a discussion in which he would probably have to disclose feelings that might bother or even hurt his boyfriend, Duo simply could not help laughing every time he got another of the tapioca balls in his mouth. Severely amusing beverage additives didn't balance quite equally against potentially uncomfortable conversation -- though, admittedly, for someone that only a couple of months before had been unable to enjoy _any _kind of beverage, it came closer than it might for anyone else -- but the tapioca was very _present_, while the conversation was only pending as yet. So in an oddly mixed frame of mind, he slid into the passenger seat and closed the door behind him. 

And as Heero did the same on the driver's side, Duo asked, mostly facetiously, "Am I in trouble?" 

Heero smiled briefly and took Duo's free hand. "No," was his serious answer. "I've just noticed something you've been doing more and more since the curse was broken, and I wanted to talk to you about it." 

"I _am_ in trouble," Duo grimaced. 

Squeezing the hand he held, Heero said, "I promise you're not. It's just that..." He took a deep breath. "I love you." 

Duo knew by now that Heero was neither accustomed to nor terribly expert at saying this phrase aloud; if you counted as a single instance the repetitions Duo had dragged out of him the night after the first time, this made the second time he'd managed it in this relationship. 

"And I'm happy having you around," Heero went on, blushing faintly. "Having you living with me. But I can tell you feel bad about me supporting you. I want you to know you don't have to. You don't need to feel like it's inconvenient for me, or like you have to try to pay me back." 

This might be a little awkward no matter how it went, and therefore Duo didn't at all regret starting out his end of it by waggling an eyebrow and asking in a exaggerated suggestive tone, "Not even with sex?" 

Heero grinned. "Sex with you is wonderful," he said sincerely, "but if I thought you were actually doing it because you thought you had to to pay me back for anything, I would be extremely uncomfortable." 

Duo returned the grin. "Well, don't be, 'cause I'm not." Then he sobered entirely as he faced down the explanation he needed to give. "The thing is... I still don't feel much like a real person yet. I mean, physically I do -- and it's _great_ \-- but socially, I guess, not so much. It's not something I ever expected; I thought once the curse was broken and I could feel and smell and taste, I'd be able to consider myself a human being again... but I don't, really. And a big part of that is the fact that you're still taking care of me so completely. 

"Don't think I resent that or anything! Because I totally love you too, and I love living with you... but it's not like I would have much of a choice at this point even if I didn't. I might as well still be a doll, because you're still practically carrying me around." 

Swiveling his cup at an oblique angle in his hands, Duo watched the remainder of the tapioca balls at the bottom swish through the melting smoothie as he continued. "And I know I got excited about you buying me things right at first, because I could _own_ things and _use_ things again instead of _being_ one; and having them meant a lot, because it was so different from before and they were such a strong proof that I'm human again. I don't want you to think I don't _like_ you buying me things. It's just that if you _didn't_, I sure as hell wouldn't be able to buy them for myself. 

"And you do a lot of things for me that I can't do for myself, because I don't know how yet or because it's something that takes money that I don't have yet. It's like I'm a little kid; I'm having to totally rely on you for everything." 

At the sight of Heero's expression of perturbation and concern, Duo hastened on. "Don't look like that! I really don't want you to feel bad about this. It's nobody's fault; it's just the way things have to be after the curse. Just... if I _do_ act like I'm trying to pay you back a little for everything you do for me, it's not so much because I feel like I owe you as because it makes me feel more like a real person who has a choice about what he does and where his life is going." 

Heero sat in silence for several moments, and looked as if he was turning this over thoroughly in his head. Finally he nodded. "I see what you're saying," he assured Duo seriously. "At least I think I do. And of course I want you to do whatever you need to to feel better, about everything and yourself. Don't let me make you feel like you can't... tell me if I ever do, OK?" 

Now it was Duo's turn to squeeze Heero's hand. 

"But also," Heero added with a solemn smile, "don't get into the habit of trying to find some way to pay me back for every little thing, or thinking you have a debt piling up. I take care of you because I love you, not because you're then obligated to do something in return. We're not business partners." 

That was two _I love you_'s in one conversation; Duo wondered how he'd so lucked out. Actually, on a larger scale, he wondered yet again how he'd so lucked out as to find someone like Heero -- someone that could, after only what Duo considered a very imperfect explanation of his feelings under these circumstances, comprehend what he was going through, or at least act as if he did, and someone he loved so very much. 

He felt he _did_ owe Heero, more than he could ever repay, for what Heero had done to break his curse. He knew perfectly well Heero hadn't done it in the expectation of a reward of any kind, but he didn't think his own resulting desire to give Heero everything, do everything he could for Heero -- not because he _had_ to but because he _wanted_ to, out of gratitude and love -- was at all unhealthy or inappropriate. But he certainly wouldn't say that now, since it would undoubtedly be counterproductive in this discussion. 

Instead he said, "You're the best, you know that?" He took another drink of the hilarious smoothie and added, "And so is this stuff." 

Heero smiled. 

Duo hadn't quite finished with the previous topic, though, much as he would like to be done. "Of course the real next step toward being a real person is to get that test taken so I can get a job. I think I'm about ready... hopefully the grammar parts won't kill me..." 

"I'm sure you'll do fine," Heero reassured. "Even on the grammar parts. You've been studying that book until it's falling apart, and highlighting half of every page." 

"That," Duo admitted sheepishly, "_may_ be just because I like the highlighter colors." 

"I knew that." Fondly Heero grinned at him. "Why do you think I bought them for you?" At Duo's faint wince his smile turned rueful, but his follow-up statement came more or less smoothly: "And once you have a job, you can buy your own highlighters, in every color you can think of. But for now, do you want to go practice driving?" 

Heero really _was_ the best; his suggesting they work on something that furthered the cause of Duo's autonomy (not to mention something Duo thoroughly enjoyed in itself) indicated both that he really did understand and that he wasn't hurt by what Duo had told him. "Yes, please!" Duo said heartily. 

As Heero navigated toward the large, usually empty parking lot where he'd been teaching Duo to drive in spare moments, Duo concentrated on finishing his drink so as to have both hands free. At the bottom, he had to suck up the weird little squishy balls deliberately one at a time, which was _extremely_ entertaining. Once again, Heero had treated him to a marvelous experience, and Duo was cheerfully grateful. 

By the time he'd fished out the last of the tapioca from the floor of the cup, they were parked and idling at their destination. And after a quick but very sincere kiss that constituted a strange blending of flavors after their respective smoothies, they left their seats in order to switch places and give Duo a turn at the wheel.


	155. Cockatiel and Armadillo

Kamatari was conscious of eyes on zir. Not that the entire café was staring or anything so dramatic, but ze _was_ sitting by the door, and nearly everyone that came in or went out threw zir at least a glance. Zir hemline sat too high, perhaps, for a day of shopping -- it might have been better suited for a night of drinking and dancing -- but the lovely weather and zir lovely waxed legs had been too tempting a combination. Ze knew the entire outfit looked fantastic on zir, and if anyone in the café had a problem with it, they could just deal. 

Some of the looks ze caught reflected in the window, however, indicated that most of them wouldn't have used 'problem' to describe their reaction, so for now the situation remained tenable. 

"Your destiny lies with me, Skywalker," said Darth Vader from nearby. 

Kamatari glanced at zir watch. Fifteen more minutes before zir bus would arrive, assuming ze remembered the schedule correctly. Fifteen minutes would be adequate time for a little more wandering, and, with a half-empty apartment in mind, the furniture store two doors down definitely appealed... but ze was tired. Ze might have overdone zir shopping exploration of zir new hometown. 

"Obi-wan knew this to be true," said Darth Vader. 

Perhaps tomorrow ze would find zir way out again and have a look at some furnishing and decoration. Sundays offered nothing better to do in a place where ze had literally no friends. Even overtime wasn't an option, since neither ze nor anyone else at zir company worked on the Sabbath. Or perhaps ze would sit around with a few beers signing petitions on the internet. 

"All too easy," said Darth Vader. 

Kamatari glanced toward the source of the voice. Though the corner spot half ringed with booth seating and half with chairs was probably the biggest table in the café, only one person sat there now, and he didn't look much like a Sith Lord. He did glance up from the phone he held, though, just after the latest quote played, so Kamatari quickly removed zir attention. 

"Perhaps you are not as strong as the Emperor thought." 

James Earl Jones had a damn sexy voice, Kamatari had to admit. Why that voice should be speaking up to harass an absent Luke Skywalker in this relatively busy restaurant/coffee shop on a Saturday afternoon not, as far as Kamatari knew, a date of any particular significance to fans of the actor, the character, or the franchise? That was another story. 

"Impressive." 

Ze couldn't help looking over again at the man from whom this effusion of Star Wars came. Was it a game on his phone playing these quotes, or what? From his movements, he appeared to be texting, but that didn't quite fit with the sounds. He also kept glancing up and around as if to check whether he'd attracted any attention. Again Kamatari looked quickly away. 

"Most impressive." 

These lines, arranged (as far as Kamatari could remember) in their proper order of appearance, were simultaneously cool and obnoxious. If the guy knew he would be receiving a string of text messages or whatever, he should really turn the sound off; yet if the quotes _were_ text-tones, it was interesting that they played in the order the lines had been spoken in the movie. 

The next sound from the stranger's phone was the first nine notes of the Imperial March, and this time the guy caught Kamatari peeking. Where many might have smiled, the stranger instead gave a nod of acknowledgment. He looked good -- though he would have looked better without the huge glasses -- and wore (to somewhat strange effect, Kamatari thought) a t-shirt tucked into belted dress slacks. Which Asian heritage, specifically, he came from, Kamatari couldn't be quite sure. 

"Please forgive me," the man said, "if my text messaging is bothering you." His demeanor seemed at odds with his words, however: he didn't come across as at all penitent, or even as if he really comprehended how he could possibly have been bothering anyone. 

Bemused by the overall presentation, Kamatari replied, "I was mostly wondering how you got the quotes to play all in a row like that." 

"Oh," said the man, clearly pleased at being asked, "it's an app a friend of mine developed. It allows you to establish a folder for your text-tones and arrange them in the order you'd prefer them to play when you receive several messages in a row, or to have them chosen at random." 

This was more information than Kamatari really needed, but not entirely uninteresting. Ze might have said so if the man hadn't continued talking without pause: "It's on its second version, so it's very stable by now, but he's always working on minor updates for it. At the moment I believe he's attempting to make it possible to combine sequences with random selection in the same settings. The app is called 'Text-Tone Sequencer,' if you're interested -- if you have a phone with an Android operating system, that is." 

"Thank you," was all Kamatari could think to say. 

"My pleasure," the stranger replied magnanimously. 

Kamatari might have turned back to the window at this point, but the man had lowered his phone somewhat and begun examining zir more specifically. The glinting gaze lingered longest on Kamatari's legs -- not entirely surprising given both the attractiveness of said legs today and the stranger's evident lack of subtlety. Or he could merely have been counting the bags clustered at Kamatari's feet, for he remarked next, "I deduce that you've had a successful shopping trip today." 

Now Kamatari tried to repress a smile and to match the gravity -- the solemnity, almost -- of the other's tone as ze replied, "Yes, I have. I found some good sales." 

"I have a tendency to do most of my shopping online, so I have a much greater range of locations to monitor for good sales. And these sites often hold flash sales that only last a certain number of hours, so catching them is sometimes extremely difficult." 

"Yeah, I bet." 

"Everyone in my group of friends is aware of what the others like to buy, however, so we're able to keep watch on each other's behalf for sales." 

"That must be nice." Not really knowing what else to do, Kamatari nudged one of zir shopping bags with zir foot and added, "I love sales." 

"And now, I presume, you're waiting on a ride. Either that or you're recuperating between lengths of your walking journey." The man's eyes hadn't risen from Kamatari's shoes, which _were_ a little high for all the walking ze'd known ze would be doing today (but matched the skirt so well ze hadn't been able to bring zirself to wear anything else). 

"My feet _are_ a little tired," ze admitted. Ze added with a laugh, "I definitely won't be wearing these shoes to work and back." 

Ze'd been told, in the past, that ze had a sweet laugh, and ze'd already suspected this guy of trying, ineffectually, to flirt with zir. Now ze was further convinced of both circumstances. The man scooted toward the closer end of the booth seating he occupied, and leaned forward slightly as he replied, "No, if you're regularly walking to work and back, I would recommend something more ergonomic. Do you lack a vehicle?" 

Again Kamatari struggled to restrain a smile of amusement at the man's expense. "By choice, yes. I sold my car before I moved here." Ze figured it was zir turn to plunge on with unnecessary additional information. "There's no reason to contribute to air pollution or waste non-renewable fuel sources on just myself in a city with such a thorough mass transit system." 

The man nodded agreement, but simultaneously seemed surprised. While Kamatari had never had anyone say it to zir outright, ze'd long believed 'too pretty to be an activist' was a common assumption about zir. But since that assessment contained 'pretty,' the reaction remained generally positive. 

Surreptitiously the man cleared his throat. "My RP group meets here every Saturday evening, and this week it's my duty to reserve the table until everyone arrives at seven... but you're more than welcome to join me while you await your bus." 

It was barely past five. Did this guy really intend to sit here for two hours simply to make sure no other group usurped the large corner seat? Did this happen on a weekly basis? What did the café think of it? 

For a moment Kamatari considered refusing the offer, but could produce no real reason not to sit with the guy for a few minutes. Saying no and continuing at the next table over would be more awkward than anything this weirdo could come up with. Probably. 

Kamatari couldn't quite tell what the stranger's impression of zir gender was, and the man read as nothing but cis-het... but that could be because the sense of 'geek' about him overrode and obscured everything else. Something would have to be offered, though, to be sure everything was on the level. "Sure," ze said, standing and reaching for zir bags. "If you don't mind having an Action Transvestite on your team." Ze knew standing abruptly would hit the stranger with the Full-Length Kamatari Effect, but at least in this case the Full-Length Kamatari had just been outed as a cross-dresser of sorts. 

The man's face lit up -- and clearly not in response to the F.L.K.E., since he said, in a truly wretched attempt at some kind of British or perhaps Scottish accent, "You can never have too many Action Transvestites. Well, if you have eight hundred million, that's too many, I suppose." 

Kamatari laughed, both at this very appropriate response to zir original reference and in pleasure at having successfully exchanged ideas in a language they both spoke. 

The man held out a hand. "My name is Wufei Chang," he said. The formality of his tone did not perfectly gel with his omitting to stand up and only reaching across the table as Kamatari set zir bags down. 

Kamatari gave zir first name, shook the hand, then sat. 

"I take it you are a sports fan," was the first thing Wufei said when Kamatari had settled, "because you said 'on your team' rather than 'in your party.'" 

Kamatari blinked. As far as ze could imagine, in not a single circumstance would ze have used the phrase 'in your party.' Ze was only very vaguely familiar with what it meant. So perhaps ze sounded a little blank as ze responded, "Yes... yes, I am a sports fan." 

"I, sadly, am not, unless you count _Eyeshield Nijuuichi_ and _Kuroko no Basuke_." 

Though Kamatari had heard of neither title, ze felt ze was at least on more familiar turf here. Not that the small amount of Japanese ze'd learned in high school made zir anything like an expert, but certain specific linguistic research ze'd done a few years back, as well as zir genetics, rendered zir slightly more confident discussing anime or whatever those things might be. 

Before ze could make any response at all, however, Wufei's phone went off again. They were back to, "Your destiny lies with me, Skywalker." Kamatari raised a skeptical brow as the man turned his attention to it immediately without looking at or saying another word to his companion until he'd answered the message. 

"Yes," Wufei said at last, as if returning to a conversation that, as far as Kamatari knew, hadn't actually started, "some of my friends and I put together an _Eyeshield Nijuuichi _ group cosplay for FanimeCon a couple of months ago, and purely for reference purposes -- all right, I admit that it was only _mostly_ for reference purposes, as we also wanted to compare American football as portrayed in the manga to actual American football -- we watched an entire NFL game rerun online." 

This statement didn't make perfect sense to Kamatari, but ze feared if ze asked for clarification on _Eyeshield Nijuuichi_, cosplay, or FanimeCon, ze would be getting in over zir head. Ze was also amused at the way Wufei announced he'd watched an _entire_ football game as if it were an accomplishment to be proud of. So ze asked, "What game was it?" 

"Something from last year," Wufei replied vaguely, "featuring, I believe, a team from Texas against somebody local." 

"Cowboys? Texans? Raiders? Niners?" 

Wufei cleared his throat. "Excuse me; I don't remember." Then he looked down to answer another text message. 

This time Kamatari didn't bother trying to repress a complete skeptical facial expression. This had been rude enough when Wufei was alone harassing everyone with his Darth Vader quotes from a greater distance; in the middle of a conversation with someone at the same table, it showed seriously bad manners. But zir display of disapproval went for naught, since ze didn't have the energy to keep the expression on zir face the whole time Wufei was busy, and Wufei might not have noticed or interpreted it correctly even if ze had. So Kamatari just picked up the conversation where it had been left: 

"I haven't missed many Sunday NFL games -- at least featuring local teams -- for the last couple of years, so whatever game you watched with your friends, I probably saw it too." 

"To me this indicates that you don't work Sundays," commented Wufei astutely. 

After confirming this extremely dull speculation, Kamatari added by way of explanation, "I work for Life's Covenant. Actually I just transferred here to manage stock at the LC warehouse. We're the hub for all the stores in the area." 

"The Christian bookstore chain?" Wufei raised a surprised brow. 'Too alternative to work at a Christian bookstore' was another assessment nobody ever made aloud, but which was often implied. Or sometimes just 'too deliberately sexy.' 

"I don't have much to do with Christianity," Kamatari admitted, "but Elsie's very accepting, and I'm guaranteed Sundays off. And it's a low-profit organization with a lot of worthwhile charitable branches, so I don't mind that the pay isn't spectacular." 

"I make quite a decent salary," Wufei said. Kamatari couldn't decide whether he sought to lord this over his companion or just continue the conversation with a relevant fact despite the potential impropriety of mentioning it. "I doubt I could survive working for a non-profit organization -- my hobbies are too expensive." Whatever his intentions were, it was in a tone almost of competition that he continued, "When you're interested in 200-episode TV series where $25 DVD's contain four episodes each, a low salary isn't an option." 

Maybe there really was a touch of disdain for Kamatari's unspectacular pay in Wufei's attitude; Kamatari still couldn't tell. But that tone of near-competition had stirred zir own competitive blood, and ze found zirself engaging almost without thinking. "I donate to a number of charities and activist organizations, and there are a lot more of those that need a lot more money than anyone ever has on any kind of salary." 

This time a competitive edge unmistakably sounded in Wufei's tone as he added onto what he'd already said: "I also import a lot of soundtracks from Asian countries, as well as high-quality merchandising." Here he gestured at the shirt he wore, which bore the image of a frantic-looking blonde child in red riding on the shoulders of a robot. 

"Cute clothes aren't always cheap." Half agreement and half defiance, this, and somewhere in the back of Kamatari's head a little voice asked, _Are we **really** trying to establish which one of us spends more money?_ "Especially if you're at all interested in new fashions." 

"Or interesting ties. I always make a serious attempt to have interesting ties to wear to work." 

_I just bet you do_, Kamatari reflected. Ze might have said it aloud, but didn't want to be forced to explain what a fashion faux pas novelty ties represented. Besides, Wufei's phone went off again at that moment, and he had once again stepped out of the conversation. 

At this third instance of Wufei suddenly ignoring zir in favor of answering a text message, Kamatari wished very much that _ze_ would suddenly receive several messages in a row so as to set a good example by completely ignoring them. But zir text message reception rate had died right down since moving, as past messages had mostly been of the 'are you coming to so-and-so's party tonight?' variety, and were no longer applicable. Now the only person that texted zir was zir step-brother, and he not frequently enough for Kamatari to hope for something right this moment. 

Abruptly Wufei looked up and asked, "Have you seen _How to Train Your Dragon_?" 

In some surprise at both the suddenness of the new topic and the odd chance that allowed zir to answer in the affirmative, Kamatari replied, "I have. My step-brother wanted to see it, but nobody else was interested, so I took him just before I moved." 

"What was your opinion of Hiccup becoming handicapped at the end?" 

"Oh, I..." Thinking back about the movie and shifting gears as best ze could, Kamatari was yet unable to come up with an answer before Wufei went on with a gesture at his phone and an explanation of this out-of-the-blue question: 

"My friend feels it was a cheap gimmick meant to evoke needless sympathy from the viewer as a sort of sucker-punch secondary climax." The disdain in Wufei's voice as he echoed this opinion of his friend's told clearly what he thought of it long before he added, "I disagree. I feel it provided a much-needed element of depth to Hiccup's characterization, especially by giving him another instance of parallelism with Toothless." 

Kamatari, who, though ze'd recovered zir wits, did not remember the movie well enough to be discussing it on this level and was pretty sure ze had no strong opinions on it in any case, decided to bring up something ze'd seen mentioned on the internet in reference to this specific plot device: "It's nice for the physically handicapped to get any representation in a movie that isn't all about being physically handicapped." 

"Yes, of course!" Wufei sounded as if, though happy to agree with anything that might even obliquely support his own views, he hadn't expected this. 

"Is it a _good_ representation of a physical handicap, though?" Kamatari mused, for once having a point to raise before being prompted by zir companion. "It happened right at the end, didn't it? That's only a couple of minutes of representation..." 

"You know there will be a sequel," Wufei assured zir. "It was a huge box office success, and it has a 98% on Rotten Tomatoes." 

Kamatari, who cared a lot more for Bitch Flicks' opinion than Rotten Tomatoes', said, "It certainly wasn't a good representation of _female_ characters." 

"Well, in the time period--" Wufei started to apologize. 

"The time period when Vikings rode dragons?" Kamatari interrupted sharply. 

"It was Hiccup's story, not Astrid's." 

"It _could_ have been Astrid's story. It would have been the same story." 

"It's based on a book, you understand." 

"A book that's also about a cis-het white male? Why does every story have to be about that same person? Can't some of the rest of us have stories too?" 

"There are plenty of stories about women!" 

"There are _some_ stories about women," Kamatari corrected almost fiercely. "But they're usually not riding dragons or fighting battles or even getting to stand in the spotlight all that much." 

"Don't you watch football?" Wufei's tone too was becoming somewhat heated. "That's a field almost exclusively dominated by men!" 

"There's a difference between allowing for physical differences between men and women and continually pushing women's stories aside, forcing women to be either completely invisible or just secondary characters over and over and over again." Ze added quickly enough to forestall any comment of Wufei's, though in a quieter tone, "Though at least there _were_ **some** female characters in that one. People of color didn't even get a _token_ representation, if I remember right." 

"Well, in the setting--" Wufei began again. 

Kamatari's interruption was even harsher than before. "The setting that has dragons in it?" 

"It makes sense," said Wufei firmly, "for a story about Vikings to be a story about white people, whether or not dragons are involved." 

"But somebody _decided_ what that story would be about, and, as usual, went with subject matter that would dictate _all_ the characters be--" Kamatari forced zirself to stop. Ze hadn't meant to start an argument about this with someone ze would probably never see again in zir life, though perhaps it had been inevitable with Wufei's random introduction of this topic in the first place. In a less combative tone ze said, "I just would like to see more Asian heroes in movies -- and other people of color, though of course I have a special interest in Japanese people, and would like to see them take center stage more often. Wouldn't you?" 

Wufei stared at zir pensively, and eventually said, "Yes. Of course I would. I'm of Chinese descent myself, however. And I don't believe being all about white people makes _How to Train Your Dragon_ a bad movie." 

If Kamatari had had a dollar for every time ze'd expressed _this_ opinion... "Maybe not bad on its own, but definitely not trying very hard to correct any systemic problems." 

"Is it required to?" 

"Well, _somebody_ should be." Wanting to dispel this tension, Kamatari added in non sequitur before Wufei could say anything else, "So you're Chinese-American?" 

Wufei seemed to hesitate a moment, as if less interested in dispelling the tension than Kamatari was, then seemed to give in at least for the moment, and replied, "Correct. It was my parents, however, who moved here from China, and I speak very little Mandarin myself. I found Japanese a much more convenient language to study. It is, after all, the language spoken in a lot of media I enjoy." 

Pleased to have segued to a topic ze could not only discuss fairly well but that was obviously less charged than the previous -- and normally ze really didn't mind charged debate, just not with this weird guy in a random café near the end of a tiring day -- Kamatari responded, "I _have_ heard Mandarin is a very difficult language for English-speakers to learn. I'm Japanese-American, and my family's been in the country for a couple of generations, so I speak practically no Japanese. In fact my original name wasn't even Japanese, but I legally changed it a couple years back, and did some research in the language then." 

"Oh?" Testament to how successful Kamatari's tension-diffusing efforts had been was the fact that Wufei's interested look turned up toward his companion away from his phone. "And what made you choose the name you did?" 

"I went with Honjou Kamatari -- or Kamatari Honjou, legally speaking -- because to Americans, who won't know what it specifically means, it sounds androgynous and Japanese at the same time. My birth name was Daniel Joshua Reed, and I kept Daniel as my legal middle name just as a sort of nod to my parents." 

Wufei blinked. His brows twitched slightly together and slightly downward in an expression of momentary confusion. He stiffened, and his face went blank. Kamatari had seen this reaction many times before, and knew exactly what it signified; what he didn't know was why it had been so delayed in this instance. 

"So I deduce," Wufei said, "from that name," clearing his throat, "that you are actually a transvestite." 

"I did say I was." Kamatari's puzzlement sounded in zir voice. 

"Yes, you did," was Wufei's awkward concession. "But I thought you were just Quoting." The way he said the word cleared the matter up; Kamatari didn't even have to ask: Quoting, obviously, was an activity -- an _art_ \-- so worthy in and of itself that the actual purport of the quotation fell by the wayside. A world in which someone could declare zirself a transvestite without meaning it was a somewhat difficult concept to grasp, but Kamatari had certainly met people that seemed unable to speak at all without peppering their conversation with random bits of movie dialogue. 

"Well," ze said, and felt zir voice slipping toward that borderline-threatening sweetness that often emerged at such moments, "I was assigned male at birth, though I came out as agender four years ago, so it's not stretching the term 'transvestite' much to say I am one." Ze didn't want to add aloud that, since it _was_ still a bit of a stretch to the term, ze _had_ actually been Quoting just a tad. 

Wufei cleared his throat again, and Kamatari waited with patience long-honed by similar circumstances to hear what he would say next. In zir experience, there was a limited list of options -- some of them comments, some of them questions, most of them obnoxious. 

"You're very convincing. You pass," Wufei corrected himself as he suddenly remembered what he believed to be a more appropriate term, "very well." 

Kamatari tried to decide whether or not ze had the energy today to break this down for a complete stranger. The problem was that even a concise statement like, _"'Passing' isn't my goal; it just happens because I naturally look like a woman,"_ still usually managed to raise more questions than it answered. But if ze offered no clarification at all, people were left with incorrect impressions about zir, and possibly about the LGBTQIA world in general. 

In this context, ze decided after some quick thought that, since ze would probably never encounter this guy again and therefore could probably afford to overlook any false impressions Wufei might get, ze might as well not bother explaining zirself. So ze merely said, with a slight nod, "Thank you." 

Kamatari had a little less faith in zir ability to overlook misconceptions the next moment when Wufei remarked, "One of my very best friends is gay." 

The problem was that it would take even more effort than the previous hypothetical answer to say, _"Please don't conflate gender identity with sexual orientation. I do happen to identify as queer, but that has nothing to do with my gender. Also? Having gay friends doesn't mean a damn thing."_ As with the debate on representation in the media, ze simply didn't feel up to it on behalf on an acquaintance ze wasn't at all invested in. Ze probably _should_ have made the effort, but ze'd been walking all day in heels, and it was really too much to expect for zir to be 'on' all the time. 

Besides, ze didn't like to admit to being a little daunted by the phrase 'one of my very best friends' that _ze_ couldn't use with any accuracy. 

This time when Wufei received a text message, it was almost more a relief than anything. Kamatari sat back and waited while the man composed his answer, then asked in a casual tone, "So you're a Star Wars fan?" And refrained from adding, _"Speaking of movies with little to no female or racial representation."_

"Naturally," Wufei replied, raising his eyes from his phone at last. "But I only support the Jedi Order so long as they serve Justice. I won't be at the beck and call of any Republic." 

"I see," was all Kamatari could think to say, repressing another laugh. 

"The Sith are also an interesting Order, with, I believe, a more rational outlook in many respects, but our group already has two Sith Lords -- one a Lady, as a matter of fact -- and there are never more than two." 

"So you all have Star Wars... identities... you and your friends?" Ze could just imagine Wufei and his group (all of whom, in Kamatari’s imagination, looked like Wufei with different hair and sometimes breasts) running around in robes with toy lightsabers talking portentously about the Force. 

"That's correct. I am Jedi Master Chang, a Kaleesh from Kalee. Lately I've been considering accepting a Padawan, though it's difficult to decide how much of the Jedi Order's restrictive precepts I want to pass on to a apprentice." 

"And what precepts are those?" Kamatari preferred to keep Wufei off the topic of queer issues, and Star Wars didn't make for too bad a substitute. 

"The Order is specifically opposed to passion of any kind. And while it's no great effort to understand that fear, anger, and hatred lead to the Dark Side, they believe that other, more positive emotions do as well." It sounded like a dissertation. "The Jedi Code expressly forbids attachment. And not merely love, as we observed in _Attack of the Clones_ \-- _all_ attachment: friendships, loyalties, family bonds... And how do they expect Jedi to value the people and places and institutions they're supposed to protect if they aren't permitted to become attached to any of them? The Jedi Code insists on Force-users becoming emotionless robots, and my _friends_ and I--" he put a significant emphasis on the word-- "believe we would be dishonoring our commitment to Justice, and each other, by downplaying the attachment between us." 

Kamatari wanted to remark that Wufei (and, evidently, his _friends_) took this all far too seriously. At the same time, though, ze found zirself responding to the attitude with reluctant approbation, even admiration... and perhaps some jealousy. So, with more difficulty than ze had expected, ze said instead, "I don't remember any of this from the movies." And ze did actually remember the movies fairly well. Ze'd even liked them -- the first three better than the second, of course, or should that be the second three better than the first? Ze'd never considered applying the Jedi Code to zir own life, though. 

"You have to understand," Wufei replied pedantically, "the movies are only a tiny fraction of what exists in the Star Wars universe. Novels, comics, video games... every day we're expanding our knowledge of what happened a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away. For example, in The Jedi Academy Trilogy by Kevin J. Anderson....." 

Wufei was still lecturing an only idly listening Kamatari by the time ze needed to head out to the bus stop. In fact he kept talking, hastily trying to finish up his current point, while Kamatari stood and began gathering zir bags. 

"Oh," he interrupted himself at that juncture. "I was going to give you my email address. We're always seeking extra players." 

Kamatari hesitated, then, in a moment of weakness, felt the inexorable power of loneliness forcing zir to give in. "Why don't you text me?" And ze rattled off zir phone number. 

"I'll have to inquire into your area code another time," Wufei remarked as he typed. 

Wanting to shake zir head at the implication there might be any more explanation for zir area code than 'I just moved' -- a fact ze believed had already been established -- Kamatari rather nodded. Once zir phone had chimed (the notification sound was called 'Rose Petals' and had come preloaded), unsure exactly how to say goodbye in this situation, ze raised one hand with a touch of awkwardness and went with, "Have fun with your game." 

"Farewell, my young apprentice," Wufei replied. As Kamatari had already turned away, ze didn't bother to restrain zir smile. 

Exiting the building, wending zir high-heeled way toward the bus stop in front of the next business over, ze couldn't quite decide how ze felt about that entire encounter. It had been frustrating, even aggravating, and certainly ridiculous, but there'd also been about it an incomprehensible sort of pleasantry, almost as if Wufei had been speaking another language the entire time, but in a friendly tone. They'd been like aliens meeting and managing to convey peaceful intentions with very little common ground to stand on -- a cockatiel and an armadillo somehow communicating amicably. 

Kamatari had no wish to join the world ze'd glimpsed through the window of zir conversation with Wufei; it was foreign to zir in a manner almost completely unpalatable. And yet not only could ze not quite bring zirself to condemn it, one aspect of it also could not be dismissed as entirely undesirable. 

Wufei clearly moved in a warm, happy, and extensive group of friends that shared his interests and probably thought much the same way he did. They looked out for online sales for each other, they spent every Saturday evening together, they understood each other's Quotes, they considered denying attachment to each other dishonorable, they watched sports they were _clearly_ uninterested in together 'for research purposes,' and their texts meant so much to each other as to overcome public phone etiquette. Wufei might be a hopeless nerd, but he obviously had personal characteristics pleasant enough to win him a place among such a devoted circle. 

To someone alone in a new town, there was something enviable -- maybe even commendable -- about that. Kamatari didn't want to partake in Wufei's way of life and had no interest in spending any more time with him or his ilk than ze already had, but ze couldn't help wondering how long it would take _zir_ to gather even a few such meaningful friends. It made zir feel a little pathetic, really. 

It wasn't impossible that it worked both ways, though. Maybe Wufei, even while looking down on Kamatari's interest in football and willingness to work for lower pay just as much as Kamatari had looked down on Wufei's vestiary obliviousness and solemn interpretation of fictional Orders, had yet seen something via Kamatari's conversation that he wished he could have. He might not be _specifically_ interested in anything Kamatari had mentioned, but perhaps some aspect of the life hinted at during their discussion called to him the way that small part of Wufei's life called to Kamatari. 

Ze would probably never know. It probably didn't matter. But it gave zir something to think about as the bus wended its rumbling way out of the shopping district where ze'd made this strange acquaintance and back toward zir neighborhood. And honestly, it didn't seem _entirely_ unlikely. Animals evolved wings or claws as needed on a regular basis, didn't they?


	156. Cross-Cancellation

"You know, you guys don't _all_ have to go _completely silent_ like that _every_ time I back out of a parking space," Duo was grumbling as he slowly guided Heero's car in the manner specified. 

"I was already completely silent," Trowa pointed out. 

"OK, Trois, you're exempt. But _you_ two--" Duo glanced at Heero, who sat in the passenger seat, then into the mirror at Quatre in the back beside Trowa. Ironically, he wasn't able to tell these two what he thought of their behavior, since the accusatory movement of his eyes toward them in preparation for doing so caused them to break in with almost simultaneous protests that he needed to be watching what he was doing. 

Duo was right, though: the car _had_ fallen suspiciously silent the moment he'd started it up and moved to leave the parking space... but Trowa wasn't certain this had been due entirely to the nervousness of his passengers about his ability to negotiate the lot -- at least where Heero was concerned. Because Trowa and Quatre had only just gotten into the car at that point, and it was nothing unusual for Heero's general volume to drop in direct proportion to the number of people around him. 

Instead of whatever facetious rant he'd had in mind, Duo was grumbling, "...just because I still suck at parking lots..." and giving more attention to the latter than the rant probably would have allowed. 

"You know, Heero," Quatre grinned, "I was pleased with myself for getting our time off arranged right this time -- the right number of days in advance, vacation pay set up, and everything -- but I realize now that what I really should have done was updated my will." 

It was Duo that replied, this time with mock haughtiness. "Well, I _wasn't_ planning on driving us off a cliff, but now I'm having second thoughts." 

Shaking his head with a regretful sigh, Quatre seemed to lament this inevitable sealing of his fate. "I just hope Goldensea is worth it." 

"If we get there at all," Heero put in. And because Trowa's thoughts had drifted in that direction, he specifically marked the tone in which Heero said it. 'Theatrical,' he thought, was the best description for it, though that did imply more drama (and perhaps volume from the diaphragm) than he could ever imagine a speech of Heero's containing. But there was definitely a performing quality to it, a consciousness of audience, and far more calculation than candidness. 

Duo now shifted to offended dignity, and almost managed to make his portentous accusation with a straight face. "You two are no true friends." 

In general, however, Duo's driving was not so bad. Trowa had found he wasn't terribly fond of being a passenger in any car, but he hadn't yet actively feared for his life with Duo at the wheel as his companions pretended to do. And despite the tendency of those companions to try to micro-manage lane-changing, acceleration, usage of turn signals, and most especially the distance maintained from other cars on the road, Trowa knew they would both offer reassurances to Duo, in between their teasing, that everything was actually fine. 

In fact, he thought Heero was already doing so. Trowa couldn't quite make out what he was saying in that low tone up there; four adult bodies in the car on a July afternoon required more air conditioning for comfort than would allow any remark not specifically aimed at everyone to be heard by everyone. 

Trowa himself had repaired the air conditioner, which apparently hadn't functioned correctly for many years, with a few spells a few days ago in preparation for this little road trip. Evidently more out of interest than skepticism, Heero had then insisted on examining the vehicle's internal workings, and had emerged, greasy and fascinated, probably with a better understanding of what the magic had done than Trowa possessed. But even if the air conditioner hadn't been working, Trowa did not doubt that Heero would have found an opportunity to murmur whatever statement he wanted to make to Duo in privacy great enough that he could deliver it in one-on-one mode. 

Of Heero's array of interpersonal settings Trowa had pieced together his awareness after a great deal of observation that had never been intended to unearth any such information. Several instances of coming into Heero's apartment very quietly (ready to retreat immediately if it seemed that something private was going on), and overhearing thus how Heero behaved with Duo, had displayed the fact that this behavior was subtly but markedly different once Trowa joined them. He'd had occasion to observe Heero alone with Quatre once or twice too, and, though of course there was no romance involved, the openness and ease of Heero's manner at such moments were much the same as with Duo. 

At first, very naturally, Trowa had attributed this to the fact that Duo was Heero's boyfriend and Quatre his longtime best friend, but after a couple of months observing and interacting with Heero he'd realized there was more to it than that. Because Trowa himself had been alone with Heero a few times, trying, at Duo's urging, to assist Heero with magic. That process hadn't gone very well, but the experiences had been enough to prove that, though Heero might not have quite the same _degree_ of openness and friendliness toward Trowa that he displayed with Duo or Quatre, those aspects of his behavior yet remained -- up until even just one more person came in. 

When that happened, Heero seemed deliberately to shift gears. It had taken Trowa a while to realize that what Heero was actually doing at that point was closing off, putting up barriers, since Heero did it so smoothly: he did become quieter, yes, but he also seemed to start more carefully calculating everything he _did_ say so as to cover up the fact that he was so much less inclined to speak at all. 

They stopped for gas at a busy station, where Duo flirted shamelessly with the women at the next pump and then clearly startled them a bit when he replied to their teasing remarks about the apparent age and dilapidation of his car that it was actually his boyfriend's. Said boyfriend and car owner maintained his stony silence and stillness in the passenger seat. 

Before they'd left Heero's apartment complex, when Duo and Heero had been the only ones in the vehicle... well, Trowa had been busy talking to Quatre at that point, but even the briefest glance at the others had been enough to show the greater level of responsiveness and candid animation in Heero's demeanor, as he and Duo looked over the map to their destination on Heero's phone, than in a moment like this when surrounded by people and observed by strangers. 

And earlier than that, when Trowa and Quatre had come from Trowa's house, where they'd been changing clothing and retrieving what luggage they meant to bring with them (and Quatre had insisted Trowa pack, on the grounds that teleporting back home in search of needed items defeated the entire point of a vacation), they'd found Heero's apartment full of the sound of Duo's excited discussion of the reception they'd all just attended, as well as the wedding that had preceded it -- and Heero animatedly agreeing with him on many points. But of course he'd changed his tone when he'd realized Trowa and Quatre had arrived, because it was evidently impossible for him to behave the same with three people as he did with one. 

Though it was obviously not just the type of relationship Heero had with those around him, but also a simple matter of arithmetic, Trowa deemed it still made a difference that those three were friends; he had no real idea of how Heero behaved around other types of people. It hardly mattered, though, since the overall point remained the same: subtly, even somewhat unexpectedly, Heero was _shy_. This was a brief and simplistic description of a complicated set of attributes, and Trowa had been a little surprised when he found he'd boiled Heero's behavior down to that one word in his head, but there it was... and Trowa worried that it might cause problems one of these days. 

Not with him, of course. While he wouldn't have applied the same description to himself, he had definitely developed certain social anxieties and dislikes, and some extremely withdrawn tendencies, over the many years, which couldn't leave him anything but sympathetic with anyone else's desire to avoid social situations. No, he worried it might cause problems one of these days with Duo. 

The latter had finished filling the car and said goodbye to his admirers, and was now, to the sound of some fairly idiotic but no less amusing banter, guiding them toward the interstate. There, Trowa knew from prior experience, Heero and Quatre would be a little less inclined to backseat drive, as long as Duo refrained from 'riding the ass' of the car in front of them as he was, apparently, wont to do; to Trowa, who was far more agitated by constant non-joking harassment of Duo than he was by any minor traffic law infractions, this would be a relief. 

The conversation had turned to Duo's job prospects and all the money he planned on making. "It'll be so cool to do my taxes next year," he was saying. 

"I'm pretty sure that's the first time I've ever heard anyone say that," Quatre replied with a laugh. 

Eagerly Duo said, "I'll do yours for you too!" 

"Thank you, Duo." Quatre's tone made it very clear that this service, which removed his immediate influence over a part of his finances, was one of which he would never avail himself. 

Picking up on this, Duo made a sulky face that Trowa could only partially see from this angle. "I'll just have to do Heero's taxes," he declared. 

"Hmm..." Heero's reluctance was every bit as pronounced as Quatre's. 

"You can do my taxes," Trowa offered. 

"I will do _everyone's_ taxes!" was Duo's fierce insistence. And he started listing all the people whose taxes he would do -- though it sounded more like just a list of all the people he could think of, starting with his friends, broadening to acquaintances, then people he didn't really know, then strangers whose names he'd seen on billboards and TV ads and people he wasn't likely ever to meet. It probably would have continued into historic figures and fictional characters, but before that could happen, George W. Bush joined the roster, and this led to an energetic and very silly tangent. 

Describing Duo as 'outgoing' was understating the fact. Duo had always been interested in people, which usually translated to his being equally interesting _to_ people, which made friendliness levels rise exponentially when he was in company. If Trowa hadn't known it perfectly well after growing up alongside Duo's jovial and usually reciprocated interest in everyone they ever happened to encounter, those brief months of money and upward mobility just before the curse would have proven it. Duo had been politely invited to someone's party the first time because he was Trowa's friend; he'd been enthusiastically invited the second time because they'd realized that the gathering simply wouldn't be complete without him. 

As far as Trowa could tell, Duo's time as a doll, being passed from one person to another for nigh on a century, had only given him a deeper and broader understanding of humanity in general, and done nothing to lessen his interest; if anything, he was _more_ socially inclined now than ever before. He didn't have a phone yet, since apparently he wanted to start earning his own money before thinking about that kind of monthly bill, but he _did_ have at least one email address, and appeared to have made friends with just about everyone in the apartment complex in addition to several of Heero's co-workers (somehow). 

Trowa didn't think Duo had started intensively hanging out with his new friends yet, inviting and being invited, but he assumed it was only a matter of time, especially once an income and a phone entered the picture. And what was Heero going to do then? Trowa feared the result of the first wanting to mingle and the second to avoid people would inevitably be constant discomfort and possibly pain on at least one side; surely, even if they managed to meet halfway between Heero's preference for interacting with as few as possible and Duo's for as many as he could, those two conflicting desires were going to drive them apart. 

On the other hand, Heero had proven himself both adaptable and tenacious thus far... and Duo's sociability, naturally, included a talent for overcoming interpersonal conflict... they would surely figure something out. 

"No, _obviously_ Heero will be my running mate," Duo was saying, "if JaMarcus Russell says no." 

"Our junction's coming up," Heero pointed out. "You'll want to be in the right lane." 

Since the difficult process of exiting and merging onto a different highway was apparently an engrossing prospect to Heero and Quatre, all conversation that held any immediate interest to Trowa ceased for the moment. Which simply meant he could carry on his contemplations uninterrupted. 

Of course his friends' relationship wasn't strictly any of his business... but not only had disinclination to see Duo hurt become more or less a way of life for him, his own level of sociability had come into play as he'd been realizing that having friends again meant once again being both entitled and obliged to care about them. And he cared about Heero. They weren't exactly _close_, but Trowa thought they liked each other well enough -- and that he understood this potential problem, at least to a certain extent, from both sides. 

That didn't mean there was really anything he could _do_ about it... he certainly wasn't going to bring it up with either of them, especially while it was only hypothetical as yet... He would just have to wait and see how things developed. 

* 

General conversation had faded into pensive, window-gazing quiet, as it not infrequently did on long drives. Heero was fine with the relative silence, but unsurprised to find that his boyfriend was not; in fact Duo was squirming somewhat alarmingly in his seat, attempting to get something out of the pocket of his jeans with the hand that was required for the gear shift. It turned out to be his iPod, which (rather than allow him to attempt to connect it, while still driving, to the cassette adapter in the stereo) Heero immediately took from him. 

"Thanks," said Duo. Then in a sly tone he added, "If you just let it play from where it was, that'll be fine." 

Heero rather suspected he knew what he would hear when he obeyed this injunction, and thus was braced for it. The back seat, on the other hand, had no prior warning, and the look on Trowa's face at the first sudden sound of _Baby, baby, baby, no!_ from the speakers was priceless. Quatre, who wasn't much of a popular music fan in general, raised such a protest that Heero (nothing loath) had to skip the song and promise to avoid anything else by that particular artist for the rest of the drive. 

Duo made a sound of exaggerated disappointment and an absurdly sad face. 

"I'll make it up to you." Heero hid his smile in favor of the solemnity necessary for this promise. 

With a sudden grin Duo said, "Hah! see, just a couple of lines of that song put you in the mood to _make it up to me_." And at Heero's expression he added, "I know, I know, it's really weird that Justin makes you want me; I totally admit that. But since we've discovered that this is a true, proven scientific fact, there's no reason not to take advantage of it, right?" 

Even as Heero echoed skeptically, "'Justin?'" wondering since what point Duo was on first-name terms with the celebrity in question, he glanced reflexively into the mirror on his sunshade to determine whether or not Quatre and Trowa were listening to this ridiculous exchange. Observing that they had begun a conversation of their own, nothing of which Heero could hear over the music and air conditioner, he deemed himself safe. 

The mirror did inform him that he was blushing a little, though; he would have pushed the visor away so as to ignore this fact if they hadn't been driving straight into the sunset... which just meant he had more opportunity (or perhaps excuse) to watch his friends in the back seat. So, giving one ear to Duo's continued, excessively silly Justin Bieber talk (talk that eventually transitioned into energetic singing along with whatever was currently playing) and one eye to a surreptitious watch of Quatre and Trowa, Heero sat in silence for a while. 

There was often, he had noticed, an almost severe earnestness to Trowa's demeanor when he conversed privately with Quatre, as if Trowa threw everything he was into these interactions. Under most circumstances, Heero would have considered this a good sign, a proof of devotion and engagement... but with Quatre, he was afraid it was actually something more the opposite. 

Duo had once declared that Heero loved fixing things. And while Heero didn't necessarily think this inaccurate, he felt it might apply to Quatre equally well or perhaps even more than to him. Or, at least, where Heero loved fixing _things_, Quatre loved fixing _people_. Certainly Quatre was drawn to people that needed help, the pathetic, people to whom he thought he specifically could be of use... so it amounted to about the same thing. 

Heero couldn't count the number of times he'd received from a yawning, ring-eyed Quatre a report of all-night counseling sessions with the latest disturbed boyfriend -- nor the number of times Quatre had mentioned having been called away from something he was doing, up to and including formal family functions, to see to some problem that really shouldn't have been Quatre's in the first place. 

He couldn't count the number of times Quatre had unburdened himself regarding the personal issues he just couldn't manage to solve for Eric, Gabe, or Scott -- issues that, while perfectly legitimate, were unlikely ever to be solved when Quatre seemed to be the only one working on them. 

He _could_, unfortunately, count the number of times Eric, Gabe, Scott, or any of the rest, had made even the most pathetic attempt at returning the favor, at offering the same level of emotional support they so consistently demanded of Quatre. _That_ he could count on one hand. 

Abruptly Duo stopped singing, and remarked with intense complacency, "I am going to run down the beach in slow motion for two days straight." 

Though the sentiment was nothing new -- Duo had been listing all the things he was going to do at the beach on and off ever since they'd decided on this little vacation, and the list became more and more elaborate with each repetition -- Heero had still been deep enough in his own thoughts to be taken unawares by the statement. Thus he wasn't in time, before Duo went on, to reply that he hoped this wasn't _all_ Duo intended to do for the next two days. 

"And I'm going to get a towel and a drink with a little umbrella in it and lay in the sun all day." 

"You won't be happy if you get a sunburn the first day and have to spend the rest of the time inside," Heero smiled. 

Duo returned the expression, but his was more of a somewhat sheepish _"Actually, I probably would"_ smile. He still took an inordinate amount of pleasure in anything that reminded him he was human. Rather than admit this out loud, however, he began to wax enthusiastic about how long it had been since he'd visited an ocean beach (a couple of years), how many times he'd been to a beach in total (fewer than ten), and how many of those instances had taken place while he'd been human (a big fat zero). 

The excitement Duo manifested at such moments never failed to make Heero smile... but since, similar to the description of what Duo was going to do at the beach, there was nothing Heero hadn't heard before in this particular dissertation, he wasn't required to pay minute attention, and could resume the train of thought regarding Quatre and Trowa he'd been busy with a minute or two ago. 

There was a name for the kind of treatment Heero had observed in Quatre's past boyfriends: abuse. None of them had meant to do it -- Heero would give them that much -- and in fact he didn't think any of them had even been aware of the extent to which they were taking advantage of Quatre's unfailing kindness. But that didn't change the facts. 

And Quatre, with his determination not to give up on someone he cared about, his confidence in his own abilities and good will, and the disciplinary side of his managerial inclinations dampened by the personal nature of the situation, continued to enable the abusive behavior long past when he should have given the effort up as a bad job. Eventually he tended to turn each boyfriend loose in what was probably worse shape than when the guy had caught Quatre's eye in the first place. 

And as for the number of times Heero had attempted to suggest tactfully that perhaps Quatre should be a little more choosy about his partners, and had his friendly advice completely ignored... he didn't even want to _try_ to count. It had been a source of more or less constant frustration for seven or eight years, but Heero supposed he couldn't really blame Quatre for a faulty behavior born of an overdeveloped sense of pathos combined with a perseverant desire to improve people's lives... and perhaps, in this, Heero was every bit as enabling as Quatre was. 

"Oh! And I'm going to get drunk," said Duo complacently. 

This was new. "Are you?" 

"Yes! I've barely ever--" He raised his chin and his voice. "Trowa! Tell Heero how much money we had to spare for _alcohol_ back in the 1910's." 

Breaking off whatever he was saying to Quatre, Trowa turned with a skeptical expression Heero pretended not to be able to see in his sunshade mirror. "We occasionally _had_ alcohol, but whether we ever once had money to spare for it is a different story." 

"So I've never really been drunk," Duo concluded. "And the Goldensea website said something about a happy hour. Quatre, you got the happy hour thing in the reservation, right?" 

"I think it applies to anyone who stays there," Quatre smiled. "So you can make up for everything you never had money to spare for back then." And his expression took on a speculative, perhaps even somewhat suggestive interest as he went back to his quieter conversation with Trowa. Trowa, with whom the current problem lay... a problem that would probably not be in any way improved by the application of alcohol, however curious Quatre might be. 

After how long Heero had spent irrationally jealous of and unfriendly toward the magician, he hated even to entertain the thought, but it just wouldn't go away: Trowa, as Heero had specifically feared back when Quatre had first mentioned they'd become lovers, fit the prevailing pattern. As far as Heero could tell, Trowa's self-esteem was easily as detrimentally low as Eric's had been... he was about as unhealthily reclusive as Gabe... and he had more tragedy in his past to overcome and put behind him than even Scott had. 

And Heero _liked_ Trowa. He was pleasantly tranquil to have around, though he could also be unexpectedly amusingly sarcastic when he wasn't too busy effacing himself. And the world of magic with which he seemed to be thoroughly, unpretentiously familiar was very interesting. But none of that, nor even the fact that he was Duo's best friend, mattered in the slightest if he was going to be abusing Quatre. 

They appeared happy enough in the back seat right now, but that didn't really mean much; of course there must always be periods of happiness, or else Quatre wouldn't be in these relationships in the first place. It was just that the trade-off was usually so painfully imbalanced. 

"You know, to be honest, I never really liked the taste of alcohol much." Duo admitted this as if it were a little embarrassing. "Which _might_ just be because everything we got our hands on back then was so cheap... but still... it might actually be kinda hard to get drunk, if it all turns out to be as gross as I remember." 

With a slight laugh Heero replied, "You know there's a whole world of experiences out there, right? Getting drunk isn't strictly necessary when there's a big percentage of the list you already know you won't get to in one lifetime anyway." 

"Yeah, that's true, but getting drunk is way easier than, say, skydiving. Hey! skydiving didn't even really..." Duo paused thoughtfully. "Well, actually, I guess it did. But it wasn't so much of a recreational pastime back then, and _I_ definitely never could have done it." 

"We can go skydiving sometime, if you want," Heero offered. He'd seen advertisements occasionally for someplace relatively local offering that service, and, though it was probably fairly expensive, he didn't think that would bother him much if it would gratify Duo. 

The latter threw him a sidelong grin. "Oh, you've already taken me skydiving," he said, with an emphasis that made his meaning clear. 

And Heero blushed faintly again, not necessarily because of the words themselves but because they'd been spoken in such close proximity to others. This, of course, dragged his thoughts once more to the people in the back seat -- not that those thoughts had strayed too far even during this last exchange. It didn't help that just then the song changed to some kind of hip-hop number that seemed to be about both getting drunk _and_ sex, the appropriateness of which absolutely forced Duo to sing/rap along and Quatre to glance up with a wearily skeptical expression so Heero was able to study his face minutely in the rear-view mirror. 

Heero had been, Heero was _always_ watching for the signs: Quatre sluggish from lack of sleep, perpetually downcast, and losing weight; Quatre seeking Heero out, looking first for random conversation to distract him and then, breaking down, talking at length about the actual problem; Quatre refusing reasonable invitations (of a type he usually accepted) from his friends because he was too busy dealing with the boyfriend or too emotionally spent to consider other entertainment... but then taking up the type of invitations he usually _didn't_ accept in order to distract himself even further with more alcohol than he typically indulged in... On a couple of occasions, when things had gotten particularly bad, Quatre's _father_ had actually emailed Heero looking for insight or at least commiseration. 

Quatre _had_ been ignoring his other friends quite a bit lately; Heero knew because he was always eventually contacted by them, when this was the case, so they could find out what was going on. Heero believed at the moment, however, and had assured them, that it was just the first phase of a particularly engrossing relationship causing this behavior, that Quatre would get back to them eventually. 

Heero had also noticed a bit of baggy-eyedness in Quatre over the last couple of months... but, again, he believed this was due to nothing more than the enthusiastic nighttime activities of that aforementioned first phase -- the same could probably be said of Heero. So, having carefully examined and dismissed the only two possible symptoms (he didn't consider that little spark of interest in alcoholic experimentation a minute ago a symptom), Heero was cautiously withholding condemnation of Trowa for now. 

He hoped he would never have to condemn Trowa. He wanted this one to work out for Quatre. No, 'for Quatre' wasn't expansive enough -- Heero hoped this one worked out for everyone's sake. It would be great to see Trowa, whom he really did like, happy and making good psychological improvement without tearing someone else down in the process. Then, the current arrangement of lovers and friends was so neat and desirable, it would be most convenient if it stayed the way it was. And if it didn't... if Trowa and Quatre _didn't_ work out... it would hurt more than just the two of them. 

Mostly he just didn't want to see someone mistreating Quatre and Quatre determinedly toughing it out again. Quatre, the beloved friend whose support, understanding, and companionship had always been invaluable to Heero, deserved better, and Heero had always been discontented with his own lack of influence in the thus-far-unpleasant area of Quatre's love life. 

He'd never been able to do anything about Quatre's awful boyfriends before, but this time he felt he might have to try harder. Which would be even more difficult than in any previous scenario, given that Quatre's boyfriend was Heero's boyfriend's best friend. As a matter of fact, he didn't have any idea what he thought he would even try, or how he would stave off the awkwardness and pain that might result. So for his own sake as well as everyone else's, he hoped this worked out. 

* 

Quatre and Trowa really didn't seem to notice, but if Heero thought _Duo_ didn't see him watching them in his sunshade mirror, he underestimated how practiced Duo had become at observing him. By now Duo knew perfectly well that Heero suffered at least a touch of discomfort about the relationship between their friends, and it was not difficult to guess that this was on his mind right now as he kept a surreptitious eye on their interaction in the back seat. 

Not wanting to hear Trowa criticized, Duo had never inquired into the particulars of Heero's discontent; and, unless Heero decided at some point to make his concern public, Duo saw no reason to discuss it at all. It was a topic on which it was only natural that Heero should be biased, given not only the strong devotion of long standing that existed between him and Quatre but the pretty obvious neediness Trowa had going on these days. 

Of course Duo knew Trowa well enough -- or at least, despite how his friend had changed, Duo had confirmed the continued presence of traits he'd known and loved in the old days even if in altered form -- to be aware that the difficulties Quatre must face in being Trowa's boyfriend were definitely worth the trouble. Heero couldn't know that yet, and therefore must be forgiven his doubt. Whether or not he recognized the potential issues in the relationship that arose from the other side of things was uncertain, as was to what degree his probable blindness in that quarter should also be forgiven. But Duo saw them. 

Earlier he had laughed to himself as he'd watched Heero and Quatre subtly butting heads over the arrangement of luggage in the trunk. It was a silly argument, since they were only staying three nights and didn't have all that much luggage to begin with. It was an argument they probably weren't even aware they were having, since they certainly weren't _unpleasant_ to each other. It was an argument Quatre eventually won (as far as it was winnable) when Heero, with an unusually expressive gesture (_"This is not worth this much effort"_), walked away from it. 

After that, though Duo had been too busy looking over their route on Heero's cool phone to pay close attention, yet he hadn't missed the debate between Quatre and Trowa before those two got into the car. Evidently Quatre was insisting Trowa wear sunscreen, and Trowa protesting on the grounds that it smelled bad. Several shades paler than it had been eighty-seven years before, Trowa's skin had already demonstrated a tendency to burn since the onset of summer and a new lifestyle that included the occasional outdoor activity, so this seemed reasonable. But Quatre eventually lost that argument (as far, again, as it had been winnable in the first place) when Trowa cast a protective spell instead. 

So Quatre had been one and one when he'd entered the car, but his tally of wins and losses didn't really matter. It all went as further evidence of a fact to which Heero had once alerted Duo and that Duo, since then, had never doubted: that Quatre was every bit as controlling as he was kind. 

Of course Duo had always thought this exactly what Trowa needed. Trowa had long been in emergency mode, with all functions not absolutely necessary shut down, all power channeled into a primary purpose to which he was honed sharp and hard -- and a way of life that had lasted the better part of a century was a difficult habit to break. He'd needed a skilled organizer to help him rearrange his priorities and reallot his energy, remind him that, with that primary purpose fulfilled, it was all right to relax and diffuse at least a little. He'd needed someone with the will to insist, the determination to persist, and the kindness to try it all in the first place -- and Quatre had fit the bill in every respect so precisely it was as if some force of destiny had been involved in bringing them together. 

But as Duo watched a second little scuffle over the luggage in the trunk upon their arrival at their destination, he had to admit he could see how Quatre's nature could eventually become somewhat... annoying... to his boyfriend, at least under certain circumstances. 

This scuffle took place solely between Quatre and his own sense. Duo, hearing the sound of the ocean as he disembarked and full of a glee that had been growing ever since the highway had brought them close enough to catch the occasional glimpse of it, would have run off eagerly toward the building in whose parking lot they now found themselves, but had been restrained by Quatre's authoritative reminder that they had things to carry inside. 

Then Quatre had wondered whether it wouldn't actually be more practical to go check in first and bring the luggage afterward, since there would probably be another entrance more convenient to their rooms that would save them an unnecessarily circuitous walk. And if that might be the case, whether three of them hadn't better wait out here until the fourth had gone inside and come back with keys and more certain information. The others, none of them having any opinion worth voicing, remained silent as Quatre rhetorically debated this and cast calculating eyes between the trunk of the car and the entry to the building. 

Moving into an appropriate position in front of Quatre, Duo placed a half-clenched hand near his mouth and said, "This is Duo Maxwell of KTVU, coming to you live from the parking lot of a fabulous beach place where world leader Quatre Winner is pondering the fate of the nation. In just a few moments -- or maybe, like, twenty minutes, since something this important requires a lot of thought, apparently -- Mr. Winner will reveal his plan to end world hunger, stop all wars, and force them to make more seasons of _24_. Mr. Winner! Do you have any comments for our viewers?" 

Into the invisible microphone, Quatre laughed. "I never watched _24_." He seemed to have taken the point, though, as he added, "Heero, can you open the trunk?" 

Shaking his head, Heero moved to comply. 

"'Never watched _24_,'" Duo muttered, turning away in disgust. "You and Trowa _deserve_ each other." 

Of course when you were sick you wanted a doctor around... but the last thing _anyone_ wanted was to have a doctor looking over their shoulder when they were well, berating them on every little thing they were doing unhealthily. Trowa's conditions might take a lot of doctoring, but what then? Once he was convalescent, how would he respond to Quatre's well-intentioned decisions about what was best for everyone he was concerned with? 

As they crossed the parking lot, luggage and all, Duo's attention was split between observing Trowa and Quatre in much the same manner Heero did (though undoubtedly with rather different thoughts) and looking around excitedly. Lines of hugely tall palm trees marched along between the rows of cars, reminding visitors that this was a venue where a luxurious ocean-front atmosphere was to be had. Though palm trees were not particularly rare at home, these ones seemed to have a particularly special vacationy atmosphere about them, and Duo grinned up at their ragged heads in great pleasure and anticipation. 

Inside the first building -- Duo didn't know what it was called, but it seemed to be the main check-in area and other administrative bits of the resort -- they made their way past an array of potted plants, some of which looked fake but all of which looked nice, and a lounge-like collection of furniture that was probably very comfortable but that Duo didn't really see much use for. Who was going to be hanging around here in front when there was a _beach_ in back? 

As they approached a tall driftwood reception counter in the center rear of the room, the guy behind it greeted them with scripted cheer, "Welcome to Goldensea Resort! Do you have a reservation?" 

"Yes, it's Winner, Quatre," the latter said. 

"OK, let me get you..." The desk guy trailed off as he began working the computer in front of him. After a few moments he asked, "OK, how's that spelled?" 

"Last name's Winner," Quatre reiterated. He added with a smile, "I wouldn't ask you to try to spell my first name." 

The guy chuckled a little, though it didn't seem he'd actually found what he was looking for in the computer yet and therefore couldn't yet know how Quatre's first name was spelled. Then several long moments passed in silence. "OK..." he said again finally. "It's Winner, like, you won?" 

"That's right. You can probably guess what people who wanted to make fun of me called me as a kid." 

Again the employee chuckled, and, though it seemed more genuine this time (in response to a joke he actually understood), it also seemed more nervous as he continued to work at a computer that evidently wasn't giving up the information he wanted. "Well," he said, obviously trying to cover his difficulties, "you all are going to love-- how long are you staying?" When Quatre informed him that they would be leaving on Tuesday after lunch, the guy completed his statement. "Well, you're going to love it here; the Sugared Rim bar out on the walk just got renovated, and it's really great. If I could just find your..." 

"Don't you love these unintuitive programs?" Quatre commiserated. "The people who design them are never the people who actually use them." 

Heero made a low noise of agreement. 

Appearing much comforted by these kind sentiments, the desk guy nevertheless continued to type and click in vain -- but at least his growing panic had been quelled. 

Finally Quatre leaned over the counter to peer around at the monitor. Given the manner in which this presented his posterior for everyone's admiration, Duo looked immediately to see whether Trowa was duly appreciative. Observing that he was, Duo turned back with an approving nod in time to see Quatre pointing at something on the computer. "Where it says 'Seasonal' there -- is that your problem?" 

"Oh, yeah," the guy said in a tone of enlightenment. "I'm in the... OK, I see... yeah. Thanks." 

Quatre, having resumed his natural stance on the floor, just smiled. 

"Yes, OK, here we go. Winner, Quatre." He pronounced it wrong despite prior indications, but sounded relieved as he added, "Everything looks fine. Yes. OK, two rooms; let's see..." 

The guy was quite visibly relieved when they at last walked away with key cards, directions, and pamphlets, and Quatre's reassuring smiles definitely had something to do with that. Which was why it was almost a shock when, upon entering a long glassed-over outdoor hallway between this building and the next where their rooms were, Quatre remarked in a low, amused tone, "I give _that_ guy a month." 

Duo's laugh sounded his surprise at this cold assessment. "After you went out of your way to make him feel better and everything?" 

"Everyone has a talent," Quatre shrugged. "And receiving isn't his." 

It would have been nice to look forward to Quatre being a little less blunt about _Duo_ when he eventually started working at Winner Plastics, but Duo couldn't really entertain any such hope. This mixture of criticism and sympathy was Quatre's nature; though he might go a _little_ easier on people he cared about, it was neither likely, nor would it feel at all right, for him to exaggerate even the kindness that was so integral to that nature. 

And as Duo considered the matter further, he came to the reassuring conclusion that it would be equally unlikely for Quatre to exaggerate his dictatorial side. He was overall, Duo thought, a well balanced person. In his compassion he might _feel_ like taking control of everything around him to an improper degree so as to make sure things got done optimally, but that same compassion would probably temper the desire and produce only rational behavior. Duo had seen this type of personality before in others, and thought it was a safe assumption that it would follow the pattern of his prior experience. 

Heero, apparently, was finished with today's (or at least this moment's) contemplation of the relationship between Quatre and Trowa, for he was giving his attention more completely to his surroundings. He seemed interested and anticipatory about what he saw, Duo was pleased to note; it was about time Duo followed suit and wrapped up his own thoughts about their friends. 

This was easy enough to do. The long and short of it was that, though he could see the potential for problems, he had no _real_ fear of their developing to any worrisome extent. He trusted his best friend, trusted the best friend of his lover and the lover of his best friend, and believed they were a good enough match both to be of mutual benefit to each other now and to adjust their interaction appropriate to any personal changes made by either of them in the future. 

Over the years Duo had learned at lot about optimism. For one thing, he'd learned that when he wasn't legitimately feeling it, he wasn't very good at faking it. But he'd also learned to draw it from a number of seemingly mundane sources. These days, when he was surrounded by, _inundated with_ such sources -- things that, to others, while they might provide pleasure, could never mean as much as they did to Duo -- it was impossible to remain pessimistic about anything for very long. 

It didn't matter that he was starting to have nightmares on a regular basis about his time as a doll; it didn't matter that he still worried about his level of independence and to what extent he qualified as a real person; and it didn't matter that he could see potential complications in a romance between people he loved. In the end, the optimism came welling back up in response to anything and nothing -- the taste of the sea air, the feel of cool glass against his trailing hand. In the end, he had to be happy. 

Trowa and Quatre would be fine. More than fine; they would surely be every bit as happy as Duo was, if probably for different reasons. They were all very happy at the moment, if not perfectly so; everything was pretty great. The only imperfection Duo could even acknowledge right now was that Heero was not as confident of this as Duo was. But even that would come with time. _Everything_ was going to be fine. 

* 

Duo had been entertaining Quatre's peripheral attention all day with his constantly increasing excitement and glee, but now all of a sudden he seemed to have had an exponential jump of sorts. Quatre had seen this in him before, and, while it was almost alarming in its intensity and abruptness, it was also a pleasure to watch for more reasons than one. Beyond just the simple joy of seeing a friend so satisfied and the amusement that arose in response to Duo's apparent ability to manufacture severe happiness out of no immediately evident material, there was also the effect it must always have on Trowa to consider. 

Duo's contentment was still one of Trowa's highest priorities, and Quatre might have thought Duo sometimes, with this in mind, showed more than he actually felt... if this intensity of emotion -- any emotion -- didn't seem to be pretty standard for Duo and therefore totally unnecessary to fake. And the reminder and reassurance it represented for Trowa -- that the curse was broken and Duo was more than all right -- was not just pleasant; it was invaluable. 

"Aha!" Duo said in a triumphant tone, as if their rooms had been deliberately eluding them and the effort it had taken to catch them in the act had required a great deal more cleverness and heroic endeavor than a mere walk of hallways. But as he drew level with the door to his and Heero's, he put a pensive hand to his face. "You know I'm not sure if this room is going to work?" 

Worried, Quatre wondered why. 

Instead of actually explaining why, Duo threw Heero a sly look. "Yeah, I definitely think it's going to need to be pretty thoroughly inspected first thing. Before we do _anything else_. You know... to make sure it's OK." 

"Oh, I see," said Quatre wisely as Heero rolled his eyes with a slight grin. 

Duo turned an expression of deep concern on Quatre. "You guys should check your room out too. Right away. I mean, you can't be too careful." 

"I think you're right." Quatre struggled to school his features. "I should probably have Trowa do some magic, even, to make sure everything's OK." 

"Oh, yes." Duo nodded vigorously, lips twitching wildly. "Magic is a _very_ good idea." 

"And then we can go check out the bar or something. Let's say we meet back out here at--" Having no free hand to pull out his phone to see the time, Quatre moved to set down his bag, but Heero gave a slight vetoing wave. 

"I'm not going to commit to any specific length of time," he said levelly. 

"Oho, aren't you?!" Duo chortled, turning on him. 

Heero just gave him a look and held out his hand toward Quatre for the key to their room. And Quatre relinquished it, mind busy with something that had been rising from his subconscious probably over the course of the entire day but that had only just emerged into his real awareness during the last ten minutes or so. 

Could noticing something because it was ceasing to exist be called an epiphany? In any case Quatre didn't really have another word for it. He supposed that was what it must have been, and also that everyone probably had moments like this: a moment in which it occurs to you suddenly that you've been believing a certain thing or thinking a certain way a while, for years and years in some cases, possibly for your whole life, without ever noticing it or recognizing the folly of your own attitude; and the abrupt, startling realization is so overwhelming that for quite some time it's all you can think about. 

It had occurred to him suddenly that he'd been subconsciously feeling a little threatened by Duo all along. Jealousy he'd been aware of, at one point, but never until now this more widespread sense of threat -- pertaining, he saw, not merely to Duo's relationship with Trowa, but also with Heero. What caused him to realize this was the consciousness of a weight he hadn't even recognized being removed from his mind as that sense of threat gradually eased: he was noticing it suddenly only because it was fading. 

His initial reaction was to look back at all his interaction with Duo, ever since the first day he'd seen him in plastic form on Heero's kitchen counter, in great apprehension lest he'd ever been rude to him. He didn't think he had; he didn't think he'd ever shown it. If he had, he probably would have recognized the attitude sooner. 

This was a relief, since Quatre was very much attached to Duo and would have deeply regretted ever having mistreated him. But he knew he was going to be looking at Duo in a different light for the rest of the weekend, if not for the rest of their acquaintance, now that he'd come to this startling conclusion. 

Heero had been the origin of the problem, Quatre felt, because Quatre loved Heero very dearly. Heero's friendship was much more profound than that of any of Quatre's other friends; Heero understood him on a much deeper level than anyone that wasn't a blood relation (and many that were), and was endlessly tolerant and supportive despite knowing all of Quatre's worst characteristics. In response, Quatre had always taken an almost proprietary interest in Heero's life, and any difficulties therein, and been a bit frustrated at how little a difference he'd apparently been able to make. 

To impose order and keep control over a world that intimidated him a bit, Heero liked to compartmentalize things, liked rigidity in many areas of his life. This was a fabulous trait when it came to organizing just about anything -- sales data, for example -- and therefore a trait Quatre, who deeply appreciated organization, could never complain about. But it often caused Heero to compartmentalize himself right off from things that might have done him good. 

To Heero, there was some behavior that was appropriate in one setting but not in another, or between people in one type of relationship but not between those in another -- and this was part of the reason he'd never been able to flirt successfully. His inability to break down certain walls made him come across as cold and withdrawn to many people, which therefore also formed part of the reason he'd dated so little and had (whether he realized it or not) been so consistently lonely. 

Obviously Duo hadn't encouraged Heero to date more -- except as far as jumping right into a live-in relationship with Duo himself counted as dating more -- but he certainly encouraged him to flirt more. He'd slipped in and solved a number of problems relating to Heero's walls that Quatre had been working on for years. It was no surprise at all that this performance should present a subconscious threat to Quatre, especially since, in some areas, Quatre still wasn't even sure how Duo had managed it. 

And as for Duo's relationship with Trowa... of course it was only natural to feel a little threatened by someone your boyfriend had frankly admitted he'd once been in love with. But there was more to it even than that. 

Earlier, as they'd pulled out of the gas station after a rather lengthy process of tank-filling, Quatre had remarked very innocently, "I could have _sworn_ you just exchanged phone numbers with those girls, Duo." 

"Email addresses," Duo corrected. Seeing that he was trying simultaneously to drive and look down at the scrap of paper he now held, to the possible detriment of everyone's safety, Heero snatched the object from his hand and read out the first halves of the two addresses it contained: 

"'hottkitten91...' and... 'tattooed Jen,' I think -- 'tattoo-3-d-j-3-n'. They sound like just your type." 

"We're going to discuss hair care," Duo said righteously. "There are so many _products_ these days!" 

"Quatre uses enough of that stuff to tell you everything you need to know." Heero's jealousy over Duo's flirtation with strangers right in front of him probably held a touch of perfect sincerity, but still he made it clear that he was teasing; in any case, Duo seemed gratified by it. 

"That's right," said Quatre, rolling his eyes. "Unlike Heero, apparently, _Quatre_ is _extremely gay_; he can give Duo hair-care tutorials better than any _girl_." 

"Ooh, Quatre's offering to give Duo _private lessons_," said Duo in that over-the-top licentious tone of his that never failed to make Quatre laugh. 

"No," Trowa contradicted levelly. "The only person Quatre is interested in private lessons with is Trowa." 

"Oh, well," Duo sighed. "Poor Duo. At least Quatre has good taste." 

"Heero is wondering," said Heero, "why everyone is suddenly referring to himself in third person." 

Duo groaned at the use of what he perceived as a grammatical term, and the conversation shifted (as it often did, since Duo wasn't over it yet) to the G.E.D. he'd recently passed. But one statement from the silly prior exchange stuck in Quatre's head -- _"The only person Quatre is interested in private lessons with is Trowa."_

It wasn't the first time he'd noticed this: Trowa had reached a point where he could tease Duo more or less easily, but Quatre doubted he would ever be able to _threaten_ him, even in the context of such a playful, meaningless conversation. If Heero -- an utterly absurd thought, but for the sake of argument -- if _Heero_ had been the one to make that suggestion directed at Quatre, Trowa would have put a threatening tone into his reply at the very least, possibly even made an entirely different, overtly threatening remark. But to Duo... 

It wasn't unlikely that even joking threats between friends were better eschewed in any case, but the point was still that there were certain relatively innocent lines Trowa could not cross with Duo... and this gave Duo a sort of unconscious power over Trowa. Duo could probably say anything in the world to Trowa without fear of even mental recrimination; he could probably treat him however he wanted, and Trowa would accept it without question, be that acceptance as detrimental to his development as it might. So in a way, Duo had a disproportionate amount of control over Trowa's mental recovery. And to someone concerned with the latter, that would of course feel threatening. 

The gradual diminution of this sense of threat had only just progressed to a noticeable level, which drew attention both to itself and to the condition to which it was a response. Because Duo was nothing but careful and kind in his behavior toward Trowa, to the extent that it seemed almost as systematic and instinctual as Trowa's treatment of him; Duo was obviously devoted to Trowa's good, and, though he might not be consciously aware of the power he had over his friend, it seemed just as unlikely that he would ever take advantage of it. 

The memory of the gentle tone in which Duo had jokingly lamented the failure of his flirtation with Quatre must be Quatre's surety... that and his trust of Duo himself. And that had been solidified by Duo's treatment of Quatre. 

Duo gave no signs of truly disliking anyone -- he seemed to have a talent for finding something to like about even the most unlikable people, for speaking with jovial fondness about even those that specifically annoyed him -- but Quatre had heard his intense disapproval expressed about circumstances and concepts; and the conclusion he'd reached was that if Duo _really_ didn't like someone or something, he probably wouldn't be either inclined toward or capable of concealment. If Duo disliked or disapproved of Quatre, Quatre would undoubtedly know it. 

Even the exchange in the parking lot just now, wherein Duo had pretty specifically pointed out that Quatre made more of mundane circumstances than perhaps he should in an attempt to control situations that perhaps didn't actually need controlling, had been nothing but friendly teasing. And pointing out someone's flaws with no hurt intended nor edge to the words seemed rather a sign of affection, of real friendship, than antipathy or falseness. 

In this Quatre was reminded of middle school and its frantic pubescent worries whether or not his friends really liked him. Maybe it was juvenile, but it seemed just as important now as it ever had to his twelve-year-old self. And he was convinced not only that Duo did like him, but that there was no rivalry between them. Quatre's relationships with Duo's boyfriend and friend did not appear to be any sort of threat to Duo, and -- out of respect for Duo as much as any other consideration -- Quatre could do no less than to consider the inverse true as well. Or at least working toward becoming true. 

Quatre was not the type to allow distraction to mar his ability to deal with the world around him, so, though his head had been abruptly flooded with these thoughts, he'd had no problem finishing up the banter that was apparently required before anyone could leave the hallway. And now he had entered the room he would be sharing with Trowa, and was exiting his whirlwind reflections at almost the same time. He'd pretty much reached a satisfactory conclusion to them, even if the ramifications of his realizations might last a while; and the room, with its huge tinted window overlooking the boardwalk and the beach beyond, demanded undistracted examination. 

Trowa seemed to have noticed that Quatre had something on his mind. He probably wouldn't ask -- which, though less than a perfectly desirable behavior in general, was for the best in this instance where Quatre felt no need to share -- but Quatre liked to have Trowa's attention in any case. As he moved slowly into the room and looked around at its pleasant furnishing and decoration, aware of Trowa's eyes following him, he started to set his small suitcase down on the bed, but thought better of this placement and put it on the floor nearby instead. Unzipping it there, he bent at the waist all the way over to start rummaging through it. He wasn't actually looking for anything, though. At least, not anything in the suitcase. 

"Duo is probably right, you know," said Trowa from much closer behind Quatre than he'd been only moments before. 

Yes, Duo was probably right -- right to be happy and optimistic, planning all sorts of pleasant activities at this resort, looking forward to times thereafter that would provide further and greater pleasure, without, apparently, worrying too much about what might go wrong. 

"Duo's a smart guy," Quatre replied in satisfied agreement, not straightening up just yet. "We should probably do what he suggests." 

Trowa did not answer in words, and gave Quatre no chance for any further coherent conversation either. Very soon the suitcase lay forgotten as the two of them followed their wise friend's advice (and undoubtedly example) in making a thorough examination or test run of the room the first step to enjoying their vacation.


	157. La Confrérie de la Lune Révéré Part 0

Even from a huge distance -- nearly from space, seemingly -- it was obviously a great collection of objects, like a vast landfill where only one specific type of item was allowed. What type that was he didn't know; though he could see they were all similarly shaped, he wasn't close enough yet to identify them. But he was nearing, gradually, inexorably, like something floating on an incoming tide. All he had to do was wait patiently, and after not too long he would see... 

Cell phones. It was an unthinkably huge collection of phones stretching into infinity and piled to oceanic depth. They were all different brands and models, showing a wide variety of conditions and levels of use. Their one feature universally in common was their stillness and silence. No light shone from the face of any; they might all have been dead, headed for recycling or an actual landfill or whatever heaven existed for cell phones. 

But as he drew closer, close enough to make out the numbers and letters on each visible keypad and the staring blank expanses of the touchscreens, he couldn't shake the feeling that there was a message somewhere for him, _specifically_ for him. He looked around. It should be easy enough to spot in this desolation. 

It was. Like some great mythological creature deep beneath the sea opening a thousand eyes at once, the phones abruptly lit. There was no wave of sudden power and reception spreading from one point to another; it was a spring to life so simultaneous it was as if a new image had been inserted in front of his eyes, obscuring the old, and beneath the new one still lay the dark, powerless expanse. And yet the light was so bright from the combined faces, though there was nothing to illuminate, that it was difficult not to believe in it. Besides, when he caught sight of the origin and purport of the message blazoned across the face of every phone from here to infinity, he had no choice but to believe. 

It was from Quatre. 

It said simply, _Help._


	158. La Confrérie de la Lune Révéré Part 1

Heero awoke to feel arms clinging to him violently, tight enough almost to hurt; and he found himself nestling against Duo and petting his hair in what he must subconsciously have thought was a soothing gesture before he was even fully awake. 

"God dammit," Duo murmured brokenly as his clutching hands moved desperately, convulsively, across Heero's body almost as if checking him for injuries. 

"I'm sure this will stop eventually." It wasn't the first time Heero had offered this reassurance recently, since this wasn't the first time Duo had awakened like this in a panic. "Just give it time." 

Duo clung tighter. "I'm sorry." 

Heero shifted so as to put both arms around Duo and pull him close. "It's OK." 

"I don't want to feel like that again," Duo whispered harshly. "I can't do that again. I can't--" 

"You don't have to. You're not a doll anymore, and you never have to be again. See?" Heero ran a hand up and down Duo's back, reminding him that he was here, that Duo could feel him, that this was real. "Never again." 

With a very deep breath, Duo forced himself to calm down, continuing to draw air into his lungs in a slow, deliberate pattern and closing his eyes. Finally he chuckled weakly. "How many times do we have to go through this?" 

"As many as it takes," Heero replied. 

He could see only the faintest glint of light from outside the bedroom door on Duo's eyes as they opened again, but he could hear an equally faint grin in the reply, "I'm not sure if that's supposed to be comforting or what... but don't think I don't appreciate that you're offering to be there." 

"I always will," Heero promised. 

They lay in silence for a while, the tightness of Duo's arms around Heero the only indication that he hadn't gone back to sleep. Finally he said, "I was a doll for a long time, you know." 

"I do know." 

"Longer than I've been human, actually." 

"Yeah, it's going to take some doing to beat that." 

"It's..." Duo's voice lowered to an unhappy murmur. "I think it's possible that I'll never really get over it. We _may_ have to go through this three times a week for... ever..." 

Heero shrugged against the pillow. "As many times as it takes," he reiterated. Inside, though, he was reflecting that if what Duo feared really did turn out to be the case, some manner of professional assistance would seem advisable. But what kind of counseling did you seek for someone whose issue was that he'd been a _doll_ for eighty-seven years? A therapist that was aware of magic, obviously... in this crazy world with its dangerous hidden facets, such people must exist; it would just be a matter of finding them. He would have to talk to Trowa about it. 

In the meantime, he might as well do what he could to try to work through Duo's worries on his own. So he asked, "Are you nervous about starting work on Monday?" 

"Yes," said Duo emphatically. "I'd be nervous about that even if I'd grown up like a normal human and gone to real schools and everything." 

Though Heero didn't know if he believed this of the confident Duo, it wasn't a point worth arguing. "You know you're going to do fine, though, right? You'll have training first, so you'll know exactly what's expected of you and how to do it." 

"Will _you_ be training me?" Evidently this topic change was working, for Duo's tone was now, in addition to the concern and agitation Heero was seeking to calm, part wistful -- since he knew the answer was no -- and also just a little playful or even suggestive. 

"I'll certainly be there if you have any questions. You already email me twenty times a day half the days of the week; you can keep doing that if it'll make you feel better. But they'll get you a company email address, probably Wednesday or Thursday... I'm sure it'll be dmaxwell@winner-plastics.com." 

"Ooh, that sounds so official! And I can send you completely sexually explicit emails from there, at work, with my work email, with both of us at work, and I won't get in trouble for it?" 

"You _will_ get in trouble for it if anyone but me sees them." Heero's attempt at sounding severe, battling his urge to laugh, was losing badly. "But PG-rated flirtation should be fine." 

By now Duo had loosened up and stopped clutching at Heero so fiercely, and his voice as he said, "I'll have to think up some good stuff that won't get you fired," had returned to something like its usual level of casual sanguinity. 

Deeming it safe, therefore, Heero said, "And I think once you're working full-time, it'll be a pretty constant reminder that you're human." 

"Yeah, I think so too." Duo's nod made a rustling sound against the bedding. "And it'll give me more stuff to think about, so maybe it'll distract the dreams away." Despite his obviously greater amount of hope and calm, he still sighed as he added, "Maybe." 

Heero leaned forward with a kiss aimed at Duo's forehead, but in the darkness found an eyebrow instead. "I can work harder at distracting you, too," he murmured. "Make _sure_ you have more stuff to think about." 

The warm breath of a faint, appreciative laugh touched Heero's neck, against which Duo, yawning, then nestled his head. This resulted in his next statement coming out a bit muffled. "You know what? I love you." 

Heero kissed the top of Duo's head and then rested his chin on it, pulling him closer once again. 

After a few more comments against Heero's skin, increasingly incoherent, Duo fell silent and started breathing deeply and evenly. Though he would eventually, Heero didn't release him just yet. He liked to imagine that, holding Duo, he could hold off the dreams as well, hold at bay everything that troubled his lover, protect him from a world that had already been unusually unkind to him. If only it were that easy. 

Despite this, however, Heero was actually rather pleased with himself. Maybe it was arrogant, but he thought he'd done quite well at helping Duo recover from his nightmare relatively quickly and smoothly. Once again, if only it were _always_ that easy to help Duo in dealing with the aftermath of the curse. The problem was that the damn thing only struck at dark moments when Duo was most vulnerable, usually when Heero _couldn't_ help him. It didn't seem fair that sleep, something Heero knew Duo had missed intensely while he'd been a doll, had been tainted by this recurring experience. 

Heero would definitely have to talk to Trowa about the possibility of some kind of magical counseling. 

For now, though, he just tried to get back to his own sleep and not think about bad dreams or the very high probability of their return, since there really was nothing he could do to stop them. This had been happening fairly regularly for almost two months now, after all, and Heero didn't know how much he believed the proposed job/distraction theory they'd just discussed. The good news was that he was becoming more and more adept at damage control... he'd gone from the startlement and nearly ungovernable concern of the first few instances to a response so quick it seemed to begin even before he awoke; by now he tended to start attempting to calm and comfort Duo before he'd consciously registered what was going on. 

Tonight he'd even been dreaming uncomfortably himself, hadn't he? --possibly in subconscious response to the signs Duo had been giving. He was reacting more and more quickly, becoming more and more in tune with Duo. Maybe that really would lead to a heightened ability to help one of these nights. 

And yet... the specifics of the dream he'd been having were niggling at him, trying to make themselves heard above his other thoughts. The memory of exactly what he'd seen in his sleep was gaining clarity, and Heero found himself frowning in the darkness as he ran through the events -- if they could be called that -- in his dream. In fact, he was waking again, increasingly worried and perplexed, and he had to struggle not to tense up and squeeze Duo awake as well. It hadn't begun to occur to him while he'd been busy with his unhappy boyfriend, but... this wasn't actually entirely about Duo, was it? It couldn't be. 

Because if it had been prompted only by Duo's distress, to which he'd been responding even before he'd awakened, why had his dream centered around a request for help from _Quatre_?


	159. La Confrérie de la Lune Révéré Part 2

Trowa was still a much earlier riser than his longtime best friend, so Duo found it no surprise, when Trowa put his head into Heero's apartment late Saturday morning, that it looked as if this wasn't the first time he'd done so. On previous in-peekings, Trowa had probably heard signs first of Duo letting Heero know exactly what he thought of a boyfriend that was so steadfastly comforting and supportive during a period of stress and nightmare, and second of a vigorous shower, but this would be the first time he'd actually _seen_ anyone up and about. 

Duo, who was very helpfully helping Heero in the kitchen dressed only in pajama pants, caught the motion of Trowa's door opening and glanced over in time to see his friend step slowly inside, close the door behind him, and stand somewhat disconsolately against it. 

"Hey, Trowa!" he greeted. "Come in and have breakfast!" 

"Come in and distract Duo so I can actually _make_ breakfast," Heero amended quietly. 

"I'll put a shirt on, even," was Duo's generous accompanying offer. 

When he returned from this errand wearing one of Heero's tees, he found that Trowa had wandered over to the sofa and sat down somewhat stiffly. His friend was now involved in an unnecessarily arduous discussion about whether he wanted breakfast, how likely he was to suffer if he skipped breakfast, and what, in the event he did want breakfast, he would like for breakfast. Heero was very patiently wringing answers out of Trowa, who was being far more unresponsive than usual; it was a little odd. 

"You know Quatre will get on _everyone's_ case if you don't eat," Duo said as he flopped down on the couch. 

Trowa stiffened even further at the mention of Quatre's name, and this was the last sign Duo needed that something was wrong. Normally that sort of remark was everything required to get Trowa to shape up and act like a human being. 

"So, what's going on?" Duo wondered, hoping to spare Trowa's feelings by letting him be the one to introduce whatever was bothering him. "Planning anything super exciting for your birthday?" 

Trowa just shrugged. 

"Birthdays count again," Duo reminded him. "That's worth celebrating, isn't it?" 

Faintly Trowa smiled. "You're right about that." 

This wasn't getting anywhere, so Duo decided to repeat the only word that had gotten a specific reaction thus far. "You and Quatre heading out to someplace extremely romantic?" 

Simultaneously Trowa repeated his shrug, sighed a little, and looked away at nothing. "I thought we were," he said, "but I think plans may have changed." 

This was enough to catch whatever portion of Duo's attention hadn't already been riveted on the conversation -- not merely because Trowa was unhappy about something, but because words like 'think' and 'may' had just been applied to a plan involving Quatre. There might be times when Quatre's plans weren't entirely certain, but that was generally months before the event in question... and Trowa was turning 112 (or perhaps 25) tomorrow. "What happened?" 

Trowa was consideringly silent for a moment. "He was in a bad mood last night." Clearly he was trying to downplay this, but it wasn't working. 

Thinking back over the five months in which he'd known Quatre, Duo was having a hard time finding any memory to supply the information he wanted. Finally he asked in some interest, "What's that like?" 

"Not very enjoyable for me." 

This, Duo thought, answered his question: Trowa and Quatre had had a little tiff, and Trowa was here to pout and be petted about it. Doubtless Quatre would call or show up later, apologetic and full of plans for tomorrow, and everything would be fine. For now, it was probably best to let Trowa get everything off his chest in his own time. 

"I'm worried," was how Trowa began, in a tone of confession -- as if worrying about his boyfriend after an argument was a sign of weakness or something; poor Trowa. "He isn't answering my phone calls, and he isn't in his room at his house." 

"Well, he wouldn't be, if he's annoyed and off somewhere," said Duo reasonably. "Heero! Where does Quatre go when he's annoyed?" 

"Swimming," Heero replied, so promptly that it was obvious he was listening intently to the entire discussion. 

"See?" Duo gave Trowa a comforting pat on the shoulder. "He's not going to answer his phone if he's in a pool, but I'm sure he'll call you when he gets out." 

Trowa was still staring blankly at a point halfway up one of the apartment's largely empty walls. Duo had been meaning to talk to Heero about putting something interesting on some of them... if there'd been a picture there, Trowa would have had something real not to look at instead of having to make do with cream-colored nothing. As it was, Trowa was silent for the moment. Duo was itching to know what he'd done to irritate Quatre, but didn't think asking -- which would be tantamount to accusing -- would be terribly kind. 

Finally, "He called me a coward," Trowa murmured. 

"What?" This startled demand came from two voices, and suddenly Heero was standing just behind the couch looking down at Trowa with constricted brows and worried eyes. 

Now Trowa's gaze shifted to the floor, as if he couldn't stand to meet the gaze of either of his friends. "I made him do something I couldn't do myself. I didn't force him to -- I didn't even _ask_ him to; he volunteered -- but the fact that I couldn't do it, and that he feels the need to take care of me, made it equal to forcing him. He probably thought he didn't have a choice, and that's my fault." 

"And it was so bad that he called you a coward to your face," Heero said. _His_ face had gone hard, as had his tone, but he spoke softly. Duo had been surprised and concerned at hearing a report of Quatre using such negative language toward Trowa, but at the sight of Heero's expression and the sound of his voice his concern grew significantly. 

Trowa nodded, and said heavily, "He told me I've been under the backwards impression that being a powerful magician was all I had left of myself that was worthwhile... and that I was afraid to let that go and live like a normal person... and that was keeping me from fully recovering after the curse. He said that if I'm going to keep being a coward about things, he's not going to be able to help me." 

It sounded... well, it sounded, Duo had to admit, perfectly accurate. It _didn't_ sound like anything Quatre would say. Duo remembered comforting himself once with the thought that Quatre was too compassionate ever to be unkindly blunt... but perhaps Trowa had somehow pushed him farther than Duo had ever seen Quatre pushed. Or had Duo simply been wrong in his assessment? In any case, the statement Quatre had made didn't sound like anything someone merely 'in a bad mood' would say. 

"He was right," Trowa said simply, "but normally he's so much more kind about things like that." 

Duo nodded inadvertently as Trowa essentially verified everything he'd just been thinking. Trowa didn't even sound petulant now -- he wasn't complaining or looking for sympathy; he was uncomprehendingly hurt. 

"I think I apologized for being so much trouble... I barely remember what I said... because he interrupted me and said, 'You know, Trowa, we spend an awful lot of time talking about you and your problems. It's not that I don't want to help you, but it gets overwhelming sometimes.'" 

Trowa quoted as if he would never forget the exact words, and Duo simply stared at him. Once again it seemed completely accurate... and completely out of character for Quatre. _Of course_ dealing with Trowa's issues must get overwhelming at times... but Duo wouldn't have thought Quatre would ever actually voice that sentiment aloud _to Trowa_. 

"Then he said he was tired, and he went home. I thought he was going to stay," Trowa added with a slight blush, "and be around today... we hadn't quite decided between a couple of different options for tomorrow... but he seemed like he was angry with me all of a sudden. And now he won't answer my calls." 

"It _is_ kinda early still..." Duo offered this excuse only half-heartedly, since it wasn't actually all that early and he knew Quatre to be a morning person. 

Something on the stove was crackling alarmingly, but Heero remained motionless beside the couch. He looked even more worried than before, and Duo thought there was a deep pensiveness and perhaps a touch of anger to his expression as well -- and some disapproval, even accusation such as Duo had earlier eschewed, in Heero's tone as he asked, "What exactly did you have him do for you?" 

Sounding even more miserable than before, Trowa ranted quietly. "He's been bringing it up regularly for months, and I kept putting it off... if I'd just done it myself, this wouldn't have happened, since I'm sure that's what caused this. He saw I couldn't do it and offered to do it for me... I shouldn't have let him; I should have done it myself... I shouldn't have been such a _coward_." 

Silence followed this minor outburst, and Trowa seemed to realize that he hadn't actually answered the question. With a glance that was unexpectedly expressive of helpless guilt, he finally told them. "The artifact. He destroyed it for me."


	160. La Confrérie de la Lune Révéré Part 3

Oddly enough, the tension in the room seemed to lessen a little at Trowa's pronouncement. He had anticipated anger from his two friends on hearing that he'd allowed Quatre to undertake something so magically involved and potentially dangerous -- just as he'd been angry at himself for it ever since last night -- but apparently his words had had a different effect. 

"So this is a _magical_ thing." Duo actually sounded somewhat relieved. "The artifact did something to him, and you should be able to clear it up and everything should be fine." 

Not so sure, Trowa said nothing. 

Heero, apparently sharing Trowa's doubts, wondered, "But _what_ did it do to him? I've never seen Quatre behave like you're describing." 

"Yeah, Quatre's so... nice..." Duo's expression, at the sound of Heero's voice, had slowly changed back to a frown. 

"He's not just _nice_," Heero said fiercely -- a very unusual tone for him. "He almost never speaks without thinking, and even if he has something difficult to say to someone, he says it as kindly as possible. And it takes him _forever_ to say that kind of thing to his boyfriend, even--" here Trowa could feel cold eyes burning the back of his neck-- "when his boyfriend deserves it." 

"I _know_ I deserved it." The slight defensiveness in Trowa's tone, the fact that he was standing up for himself (in a way) would have pleased Quatre the day before yesterday, Trowa thought. Today? Who knew? "He didn't say anything that wasn't perfectly true. It's _him_ I'm worried about." Well, there was a touch of _us_ he was worried about too -- which, he felt, also would have pleased the normal Quatre. But when the normal Quatre wasn't around, it seemed almost meaningless. "And he's not answering his phone." 

Abruptly Heero moved around the sofa and down the hall. For a few moments there was no sound but that of whatever he'd been cooking, which was now beginning to smell a bit smoky. In response to this, Duo reluctantly stood and went to deal with the probably ruined breakfast. Trowa thought there was very little appetite left among the three of them. 

"Trowa..." Heero had returned with his cell phone, on which he'd fixed a very odd, pensive look. "About what time last night did this all happen?" 

"Early morning." Wondering why Heero wanted to know, Trowa tried to narrow it down. "Probably around three." 

"Which time zone?" 

"Mine. So, midnight here?" 

In the kitchen, Duo's sudden audible shifting suggested this meant something to him. But Heero said nothing, only nodded slightly and turned back to walk down the hall again. Another silence settled, but for Duo rattling cooking utensils, finally followed by the muffled sound of Heero talking to someone on the phone in his bedroom. It didn't seem a very promising conversation, though -- too many questions and long pauses. 

This was confirmed when Heero returned, still eyeing the device in his hand strangely, and eventually looked up at where Trowa remained on the couch. "No answer," he said, stopping in the entry to the hall and pocketing his phone with a reluctant slowness. "I called his house too, and Darryl said he's still not there. Something is definitely wrong." 

"Why do you say that?" It was actually a little annoying that, after it had already been established that Quatre wasn't answering Trowa's calls, Heero would come to the conclusion something was wrong only after _he_ tried and failed to reach his friend. 

"Because," said Heero slowly, still frowning, "last night at 12:15 or so, I woke up from a dream about Quatre asking me for help." 

Now it was Duo's turn to emerge, startled, from the kitchen, abandoning whatever cooking endeavor was going on there. "_You_ woke up from a dream?" 

Heero nodded. "It was a message. I didn't quite realize that last night, because..." His eyes flicked to Duo and away. "I got distracted. But it wasn't a normal dream." 

Mimicking the nod, Trowa said wearily, "You're a communicator." 

"What?" Duo wondered, pulled momentarily from his concern for Quatre. "Is he?" 

"I've thought so for a while, but I never got around to running a test. Now I don't have to. The type of connection with a friend that brings dreams like that is one of the definitive signs." Trowa would be very interested in this at a later time, but at the moment he barely cared. "And you're right, Heero: it's also a definitive sign that something is wrong." As if that weren't already obvious. 

Heero too set aside, for now, the question of his area of magical talent. "And I assume you can't jump to him, or you would already have done it." His tone was even, and Trowa got the feeling he was also setting accusation aside in the interest of helping Quatre. 

"I haven't tried jumping anywhere," Trowa replied, "but I'm sure it will take some time and practice before I can do it again at all... and I don't know if I'll ever be able to use Quatre as a destination again." And that prospect had been not the least of the reasons he hadn't been looking forward to giving up the largest portion of his power. Quatre had been right about his cowardice, but at least some of it was specifically related to Quatre himself. The reminder that normal people got around by non-magical means all the time could do little to console Trowa for the loss of the ability to go instantly to his boyfriend whenever he wanted. 

"You haven't tried yet," Heero murmured very quietly, almost as if to himself. Then, more loudly and very flatly he wondered, "Why are you here, Trowa?" 

Trowa opted for complete honesty. "I wanted to see if I was overreacting." 

"If you haven't tried jumping to him yet, I'd say you're underreacting." 

"Maybe not, maybe not," said Duo placatingly from where he'd returned to the kitchen. "We don't know for sure yet exactly what happened." 

"I," said Heero, in the same absolutely flat tone as before, "have known Quatre for ten years. And I am telling you both that something is wrong. Trowa, I think you should try jumping to him. If that doesn't work, I think you should look through those books of yours and see if you can figure out what might have happened to him." 

The _I think_'s didn't make these statements any less commanding, but any sting Trowa might have felt at being ordered around by Heero was drowned in the concern he felt -- an emotion he'd been holding back all this time but that had been let loose by Heero's steely pronouncements. He nodded and stood. "Let me know if you get ahold of him." 

Curtly, Heero returned the gesture. 

Duo's tone in the goodbye he called out as Trowa headed for home was somewhat forlorn. "Good luck!" Trowa heard him add as his door closed. 

It didn't entirely close before it opened again, and he turned, a little surprised, to find that he'd been followed. Heero still looked grim, but something about the grimness had altered slightly. Silently he let the door fall shut behind him as he faced Trowa across the entry, and Trowa waited in equal silence for whatever Heero had remembered or thought of to add. 

"This isn't the best moment to ask," Heero began slowly, "but I don't want to wait. Do you know -- or could you find -- a good therapist who knows about magic?" 

Trowa blinked in surprise, but the explanation for the incongruous request presented itself almost immediately: Duo needed help. Professional help. It was in no way any wonder, regardless of how happy Duo seemed in general. And he certainly did seem happy to Trowa... Heero tended to know these more personal things long before Trowa did these days, an idea to which Trowa still hadn't entirely reconciled himself. Not that now was the time for that. 

"I'll look for someone," he assured Heero seriously. 

"Thank you." As this evidently formed the completion of the intended exchange, Heero turned and moved to go back to his apartment. 

But Trowa couldn't let him leave without saying something that, he hoped, would reassure (or at least remind) Heero that they two were still friends despite any coldness resulting from odd and uncomfortable circumstances, that Trowa returned concern for concern. It was a little difficult to drag his mind away from the worrisome mystery of Quatre's behavior, and the next subject in line would certainly be this new suggestion that Duo was still traumatized by the long cursed years, so his words were a little halting as other thoughts continually dragged his attention away from them. "Heero... if communication is your primary skill..." Trowa was fairly sure he was right about that, and even without the artifact, Trowa's surety was worth quite a bit on magical matters. "If you're a communicator, and your abilities have awakened... you're likely to start hearing people's thoughts." 

"What?" Heero sounded surprised and not entirely pleased. 

"Only louder thoughts, in general." Though it wasn't Trowa's main area of talent, so he'd never had this problem, he knew how it usually worked for communicators. "But if you spend enough time with someone, you'll start picking up anything on the surface of their mind they aren't actively trying to hide from you." 

"In other words," Heero muttered, "get ready to start hearing all of Duo's thoughts, and probably Quatre's, and maybe yours." 

"Not mine." Trowa's tone was a bit dry as he recalled just how much time and power he'd had backing his practice even of skills that were technically secondary to him, little proficiency as he'd still gained in some of them. "And I think Quatre's... natural organization... may keep most of his thoughts exactly where he wants them." Just mentioning Quatre's name distracted him from this topic, but Trowa forced himself to finish. "But Duo... yes, I think you should get ready to start hearing Duo's thoughts. Surface-level thoughts, at least." 

Heero had turned to face Trowa again, and now he nodded slowly, his pensive expression bearing traces of reluctance. Finally he smiled grimly and said, "I guess that's the price I have to pay for hanging around you magical people. There's nothing I can do about this, is there?" 

Trowa shook his head. There certainly were options to make Heero's talent easier for him to deal with, but Trowa was at the end of how far he could discuss this subject right now; having alerted him to the somewhat inconvenient early indications of a communion skill was all he could manage at the moment. 

"Well, thanks for the warning." Heero turned back toward the door once more. Before he opened it he added in a friendlier tone than he'd used to dismiss Trowa from his apartment, "Good luck today." And once Trowa had returned his thanks, he left. 

Trowa sighed as he glanced back and forth between his study and his computer room, trying to decide whether magical experimentation or research (and, if the latter, which branch of research) would be most likely to produce quick and positive results. Eventually he headed into the study with a good deal more to think about than he'd had when he left it earlier -- assuming he was capable of thinking about anything besides Quatre.


	161. La Confrérie de la Lune Révéré Part 4

Duo was examining the outcome of all their diffuse breakfast endeavors with a contemplative frown as Heero came back into the apartment through Trowa's door, and the most worrisome part was that Duo looked like he was seriously considering eating it anyway. In celebration of the fact that he could eat anything now, Duo would eat anything now. 

"I hope you following him in there means you thought of something that explains everything," he said without looking up. 

"No," Heero half sighed. "I wish it did." 

The expression Duo now turned up toward him was sympathetic, but pretty clearly showed that he wasn't yet convinced of the full direness of the situation with Quatre. There was some curiosity in it too as he said, "Why'd you go after him, then?" 

"Trowa says he'll look around for a therapist who knows about magic to help you with... your..." Heero found his voice failing at the change that occurred during his words: Duo had stiffened, stilled, and given Heero his complete attention -- and none of this in a good way. 

"Did Trowa bring this up," Duo asked quietly, "or did you?" 

"I did. Because of your dreams." 

Tightly Duo nodded, and his voice was quiet and nearly emotionless as he said, "Please don't just go over my head like that." 

"I didn't sign you up or anything; I just asked Trowa if he knew anyone you could go to." 

Duo moved his attention back to their breakfast as Heero approached somewhat warily. "Well, talk to me first about things like that. _Then _Trowa." Actually it didn't look like he was examining the food at all; he obviously just didn't want to look at Heero. 

In response to Duo's pointed turning away, Heero stopped at the edge of the kitchen and tried to explain. "I knew you'd just say that no psychiatrist could possibly know what you've been through, so I thought before I brought it up I'd check--" 

"Please," Duo reiterated with a firmness that was almost desperate. "Talk to me first." He gripped the oven door handle tightly as his gaze seemed to be pointed toward the contents of the stove without really seeing them. "You don't know what I've been through either; you don't know what it's like to have everyone do everything _for_ you because you can't do it for yourself." 

Heero couldn't help being a little hurt by _"You don't know what I've been through,"_ but he struggled not to say so. It was true, after all, at least on a certain level: he had been informed of much of Duo's history, and had himself been part of Duo's last month as a doll, but that wasn't the same as _knowing_. Even if he'd been there for all of it, he couldn't really have known what was going on in Duo's head, how the curse affected Duo on the inside rather than the outside. Of course Duo had shared some of it with him, and there was more Heero could guess at just by interacting with him, but that still wasn't the same as knowing. And even the knowledge he claimed to have -- that therapy would help -- was in actuality only a guess. 

But if what Trowa had warned him about did come to pass, he might eventually no longer _need_ to guess what was going on in Duo's head. He might eventually know what Duo had been through. But he pushed that thought away for now. 

"Of course. You're right," he said at last. "I should have realized." He meant it as an apology he didn't quite have plainer words for, and Duo seemed to accept it as such. 

"It's..." Duo released the oven with one hand and swung around, pivoting on the other wrist, still hanging on but looking now at Heero with a serious expression. "Not like I don't appreciate the thought. OK, well, I don't really like the thought much either, but..." 

Heero winced. Of course Duo wouldn't enjoy having his boyfriend suddenly suggest that he needed counseling, even if Heero had managed to suggest it in a manner that didn't tread heavily on Duo's toes. 

"But I appreciate that you're trying to look out for me," Duo finished. He gave Heero a smile that, though genuine as Duo's smiles always were, wasn't as happy as it could have been, and turned back to the stove. Now he focused properly on the remains of their intended breakfast, and said more or less cheerfully, "I think I'm not hungry enough anymore to eat this. What do you think?" 

Heero moved forward to join in the examination, and shook his head. 

Wordlessly they set about cleaning up, discarding ruined food and washing dishes in a silence that was like Duo's smile -- not tense or angry, but neither as easy or happy as it could have been. 

Finally, scraping the frying pan somewhat over-vigorously, Duo said abruptly, "I don't need therapy." 

"I'm sorry," Heero replied. It was an automatic and somewhat defensive response, but at least he'd gotten the words out. 

"I made it through eighty-seven years as a fucking doll without going crazy." Duo, whose voice told what he was feeling far more often than Heero's did, sounded much more defensive than Heero had. "I don't need to see someone about a couple of little bad dreams." 

"I'm sorry," Heero repeated, this time at a murmur. He thought Duo was very specifically incorrect in this instance -- Duo's almost desperate defensiveness spoke pretty eloquently that there were mental issues in there that could use some professional help -- but Heero _was_ sorry he'd made him unhappy with his suggestion and his thoughtlessness, and he _wasn't_ going to press the issue at the moment. He would have to bring it up again eventually, but right now he just wanted Duo to smile properly. 

What Duo did instead was drop what he was working on in the sink and fling soapy-handed arms around Heero unexpectedly from behind. "It's OK," he said. "Stop sounding like a kicked puppy! How could I be mad at you for doing something you thought was just to help me?" 

"Because I did it all wrong?" Heero suggested. Whether or not he still sounded like a kicked puppy -- and he had some doubts about having done so in the first place -- he couldn't guess, but he was certainly happier with Duo's arms around him, even if he was going to have to change his shirt. 

Duo nuzzled his face into Heero's back, and, though he said something muffled about learning from experience and not doing it again, he seemed to be seeking comfort all of a sudden. As if he were asking Heero -- the one that had introduced the idea -- to reassure him that he wasn't broken. It didn't shake Heero's conviction that counseling would do his lover good, nor did it make him feel less guilty about how he'd botched things; but he did raise a hand to clutch at Duo's, disregarding suds and char, and squeeze it. 

Eventually Duo stood straight, pulling away and clearing his throat, and turned back to the sink as if nothing had happened. "Besides," he said in a brighter tone than before, which didn't entirely match his words, "you're distracted worrying about Quatre." 

This tense little scene with Duo had actually driven thoughts of Quatre far into the rear of Heero's mind, but it was true that his best friend had been almost the center of his thoughts when he'd followed Trowa. That didn't excuse having done something he should have known would be hurtful to his boyfriend, and he would have brought this up had he not believed Duo's mentioning Quatre was a signal that he wanted to talk about something else. 

Heero located a towel to run over the front of his shirt and his hands, and then brought out his phone to try Quatre again. This time it went straight to voicemail. Though Heero wasn't generally one for leaving messages, he was tempted in this instance. That he hadn't the faintest idea what he could say kept him from doing so. 

What next? Conceivably Heero could call the club and see if he could wheedle them into telling him whether or not Quatre was there, but, even if he managed that, what then? It was pretty obvious that Quatre wasn't interested in talking to anyone right now, and, worried as Heero was, such wishes should be respected. And yet, if there was magic at work, such wishes might have to take lower priority than expedience. But, as with a message, what would Heero say? Very specific concern was sometimes a little difficult for him to convey; something this uncertain would probably be even harder to put into words. But he would definitely feel a lot better if he could talk to Quatre -- about anything. Just to hear his voice at this point would reassure Heero, even if it reaffirmed the current bad situation. 

He supposed he could visit in person the places he thought Quatre might be... but he couldn't get into the club except as the guest of an actual member, who had to be present at the front desk; and anywhere else Quatre might go in a particularly and possibly supernaturally bad mood -- the office, out jogging, or to Cassidy's bar downtown -- were hit-or-miss at best. 

"You're really seriously worried, aren't you?" Whether the darkness of Duo's tone was in response to the referenced worry or a lingering result of the previous conversation, Heero didn't know. In any case, he was finished scrubbing the frying pan (or at least finished with all the work he was willing to put in on that endeavor at the moment), and wrapping arms around Heero's chest again. He hadn't washed his hands, but it didn't much matter. 

"I'm really seriously worried," Heero confirmed. And perhaps it was impetuous, but he decided suddenly, "And I'm going to go look for him." 

"I'll come with you," said Duo at once. 

"Thank you," Heero replied. "Let me change shirts, and we'll go." As he left Duo's arms and headed across the living room toward the hall and his bedroom, he added with a sigh, "This may be completely useless, but it'll feel better than doing nothing."


	162. La Confrérie de la Lune Révéré Part 5

This was like an echo of those long years when he'd been unable to find Duo or get any idea of what he should do once he managed to: he had huge amounts of knowledge and decades of experience, but in the specific area where he was being challenged he was ignorant and powerless. 

He'd never been very good at divination, and now, without the artifact to boost his personal power, he was barely getting answers at all. This, he believed, probably arose from having grown too accustomed to that extra power, and that he would, in time, be able to benefit from that branch of magic again... but 'in time' didn't help with figuring out what had happened to Quatre right now. 

In the area of communion he'd likewise never been very skilled, and the telepathy that was the hallmark of a communicator's powers was something he'd never mastered. Good communicators could, with practice, even speak telepathically over a distance, but Trowa didn't think any amount of practice would allow _him_ to do so. So reaching out mentally to Quatre was out. 

Command magic, therefore, was his only option in this situation. Thinking back on how skilled he'd become in this area was reassuring, but his drop in raw power was still a concern, and not a small one. He hadn't realized how much he'd come to use the artifact as a crutch -- even to the point where he'd developed a certain attunement to it that had allowed him to access it from a distance almost without realizing he was doing so -- until he was forced to go without it. Once again, however, he believed it was just a matter of time before he learned to look at magic from the different angle of having an almost perfect knowledge of how to work it without the practically unlimited power he'd once commanded. 

The last couple of hours, spent first exploring his options and then trying to jump to Quatre, had obviously not constituted the time that it was only a matter of. In teleportation, there was no prior connection to the destination; you only knew you had properly specified the desired location by arriving there. Therefore, there was no scale to measure how well you had a destination in mind: you either arrived at it, or you went nowhere. In this case, it was like reaching, while climbing blind, for a handhold that turned out not to exist. And then the energy already built up for the spell had to be expended, either by initiating the weightlessness of jumping to no purpose where he stood or as a burst of undirected power that threatened destruction around him. 

In part for this reason, he'd been attempting this experiment outside in his back yard. Up almost to his knees in weed-choked grass, breathing deeply, eyes often closed, sometimes raising his arms in a gesture meant to focus his energy in the direction he wanted, he would have presented quite a picture to anyone able to see over the six-foot fences, but for once he was completely ignoring the old paranoia about his neighbors. 

He was also out here because he suspected a few of the objects in his study of having become artifacts. Because they had formed in conjunction with his use of the lunar artifact, they had previously been merely satellites to it, attuned to it from their inception, and unlikely to interfere with any magic he performed using its power -- but now, with the candlestick destroyed, they were free to progress along their own paths and develop their own wavelengths that might interact badly with each other and have unforeseen influences over his attempts at spellcasting. Eventually he would test the items he suspected, and others, to determine which were artifacts and what their nature might be, and decide what to do with them all, but at the moment, not having time for that, he was simply working outside their presence. 

Well, it was clear that using Quatre as a destination was simply not going to work. Whether it would at some point in the future, after more extensive and leisurely experimentation, Trowa did not know; right now he had to move on. The next step seemed to be, more simply, jumping to a destination that demanded less focus, less precise conjunction of multiple branches of magic. And the choice of destination wasn't terribly difficult, given that there were only a few places Quatre was likely to be that Trowa knew well enough to jump to. It was Saturday, yes, but he'd known Quatre to go to work on weekends for reasons less pressing than being magically irritable and wanting a distraction. 

From many instances of picking Quatre up after work (whether because he'd taken him there in the first place and Quatre had no other way home, or in preparation for an evening together, or even just, on a couple of occasions, to surprise him), Trowa knew Quatre's office well enough by now to be confident in his ability to jump to it if he could manage the teleportation spell at all. He tried not to imagine Quatre there, practically waiting for him to appear, with an explanation for his strange behavior and a reassurance that he wasn't actually angry at Trowa at all. He tried not to picture them making up tenderly and then heading off -- after, of course, a reassuring call to Heero -- for a birthday celebration that would last the rest of the weekend. He knew he would only be disappointed. 

Even as he cast the spell, he felt how extravagant he'd become. He never would have noticed before, with the artifact, but now when he had a much lower level of power it was obvious that he was expending _far_ too much of it on this task simply because he'd never had to worry about conserving energy before. But now, as he landed in the office lit only by the big wall of windows on one side, he actually stumbled as he came to rest, and had to catch the desk to keep from falling. Exhaustion slammed into him along with the realization that he'd used the better part of his power on this one jump, that he certainly wouldn't be leaving this place magically until he'd had a rest and probably a good hard reflection on how more economically to cast this spell. 

And of course Quatre wasn't here. Despite having striven to avoid getting his hopes up, Trowa was still bitterly disappointed. 

After a glance around and coming to the decision that the very comfortable-looking leather chair at Quatre's big glossy desk would be the best place to regather his strength and give his mind to what needed to be thought about, he moved first, slowly, toward the office door (at what might be considered a hobble) in order to poke his head out into the hallway to ascertain whether he could hear anyone moving around in other parts of the building. And though he thought the fact that lights were on was a good sign that someone else was probably here, he didn't hear anyone immediately nearby, which was for the best. Then he took a seat, swiveled to face the windows, and stared blankly out at the parking lot and other nearby businesses. 

It was strange to feel so drained so abruptly. It was novel, but that didn't mean he liked it. He felt as if he'd just run a marathon and come in last. Never in his life could he remember being so worn out, and though the bulk of the sensation was not physical, yet a certain measure of physical weariness was dragged along in the wake of his magical depletion. It was depressing and embittering. 

The sound of the office door opening startled him enough that he jerked in his seat, and several thoughts went through his head in split-second succession: first, that it must be Quatre; second, that, as it obviously _wasn't_ Quatre, it was odd that the door should be unlocked for anyone else to get in; third, that he'd probably unlocked the door himself by opening it from the inside; fourth, that his presence here was going to seem strange no matter who it was and why they were entering. 

Even as he turned, he heard a woman's voice begin, "I didn't know you were here today, but I'm glad--" But she cut off when she saw that it wasn't her manager in the chair behind the desk. 

"Pardon me," Trowa replied wearily. "I know I'm not who you're looking for." 

"No," she said, advancing. "I thought Quatre must have come in without me noticing, and it was a stroke of luck he was here on a Saturday just when I was." She smiled a little as she approached the desk, and it was obvious that she _did_ think it odd -- and probably a little suspicious -- to find this stranger here. 

For a moment Trowa didn't know what to say. Not that coming up with excuses for the magical happenings in which he was often involved (indeed, which he often _caused_) was at all foreign to him; it was because he was momentarily captivated by her face. 

It was the strong nose, he thought, and something about the corners of the eyes. She didn't have freckles, but he thought hers was the type of complexion that might develop them under the correct atmospheric conditions. And the big curls in the reddish-brown hair were certainly part of it. 

Not entirely sure what prompted him to do so, he stood up and reached out across the desk, just as if this were his office and he was introducing himself to a co-worker or something, to offer a handshake. "My name is Trowa Barton. I'm Quatre's boyfriend." And though simple truth such as this was something he greatly _preferred_ to tell where possible, it was a little surprising even to him that he'd given it so readily here and now. 

He thought her eyes were studying his features with just as much interest as his had studied hers, and at the sound of his name her brows went down slightly -- not, he thought, with any negative emotion, but in an expression of interest and curiosity. She accepted the handshake with a firm grip and replied, "Well, I'm Catharine Barton. Good to meet you." 

What were the chances, Trowa wondered, of a second child of his mother also having deliberately taken her last name, and both that name and his mother's features having been carried down several generations and across the country to manifest in a co-worker of his mother's first child's boyfriend a century later? Could it be just a coincidental resemblance and sharing of name? He had no idea. 

He realized he'd expressed himself equally pleased to meet her almost without knowing he spoke, and now she was asking him, "So is Quatre here after all?" 

With a shake of his head designed also to shake himself out of his distraction he replied, "I don't think so. I came here looking for him, but it seems I'm out of luck as well." 

"That's too bad," she replied. Her stance had shifted slightly, and Trowa realized that she was settling in. She probably wasn't quite sure yet that she believed he was who he said he was, and felt she couldn't leave the room until her mind had been eased on that point. That was fine -- Trowa needed to rest before he could go anywhere anyway, and he might as well do it in someone else's presence as out of it -- but he wanted to sit back down, and felt it would be discourteous to do so with this woman standing across the desk from him; at the same time, it would be awkward to _invite_ her to sit down when this wasn't actually his office. 

The slight awkwardness of the situation was clearly felt by Catharine too, and was probably what prompted her question, "Can't you call him?" 

"He's not answering," Trowa replied. "We had a fight." 

"I'm sorry to hear that." Her sympathy sounded genuine, and also seemed to break the ice a bit; glancing around, she pulled one of the other chairs in the room closer to the desk and sat, much to Trowa's relief. But she still sounded as if she was floundering a bit for things to say when she added, "You're lucky you ran into me and not anyone else from sales with that news. I've never met a team more gossipy than ours." 

"I've heard stories," Trowa nodded as he too took his seat. "Apparently everyone believes Quatre is dating Heero." 

She gave a smile of regretful amusement, and seemed to relax a bit; Heero's name (and this bit of gossip) was obviously a password of sorts. "It's gotten a little confused lately, because--" She lifted her chin and a pointed finger as she interrupted herself: "Now, I want it understood that I don't work the gossip mill! But it's impossible not to overhear just about everything." 

Trowa smiled a bit at the mixture of pride and playfulness in her demeanor. "Understood." 

"Well, some people know Heero's actual boyfriend, and half the building _still_ thinks Heero and Quatre are dating. There's a lot of whispering about who's cheating on whom." 

"I wonder how Duo coming to work here will affect that." 

"Duo -- that's Heero's boyfriend, right? Is he coming to work here?" 

"He starts Monday, I believe." 

"It's going to turn everything upside-down for a while. Always a fun time for those of us who are here to work, not stick our noses into other people's business." 

The fact that she was here on a Saturday was all the confirmation Trowa needed that she was one of those here to work. 

"And even having said that," she added, leaning forward a bit, "I can't help asking... where are you from?" 

Evidently the family resemblance was not, as Trowa had half thought it might be, a figment of his imagination, if the way Catharine's eyes were roving his face was any indication. She looked mostly relaxed and unsuspicious now, and would probably be all right leaving him alone in Quatre's office -- but there was no reason they couldn't try to figure out for sure, first, whether or not they were related. The possibility of his having living relations, whatever their precise degree of connection, was not one Trowa had ever given any thought, and he found that it interested him more than he would have expected. And a distraction from his concern about Quatre, during these moments when he was forced to rest and barred from action, was not unwelcome. 

So, falling back somewhat on the old genealogy he'd built for himself to fill up believably the years between his parents and himself, and setting forth his own history in the early 1900's as that of his great-grandfather, he started to explain where he'd lived and about his family line.


	163. La Confrérie de la Lune Révéré Part 6

  


The entirety of Saturday had passed without Quatre either answering or returning any of Heero's calls, and the physical quest to locate him had been equally unrewarding. This, Heero thought at first, was the reason he awoke the next day (and was even inclined to rise) so much earlier than he generally did on weekends; but he rethought this assessment on leaving his bedroom and finding Trowa sitting on his sofa in the living room. 

Though he could tell immediately from Trowa's expression (and, really, mere presence) that it might not be the most welcome good morning he could give, he still offered, "Happy birthday." 

Trowa sighed. 

Having learned everything he needed to know from this, Heero didn't bother asking. Nor did he volunteer to make some breakfast for Trowa, assuming such a discussion would turn out much like yesterday's. The more upset Trowa was, the less inclined he seemed to be to do normal human things; at the moment he looked like he hadn't slept much last night, and had probably forgotten what eating was. 

Heero wanted to offer some form of comfort, however. His own mood was morose enough; he had no doubt Trowa, especially after a night of whatever had kept him awake, felt even worse. And no matter what Trowa had done or might be that Heero didn't entirely approve of, he surely deserved some reassurance. So, once Heero had gotten the coffee started, he leaned against the counter down at the end nearest the sofa and said, "Quatre helped me through a couple of the most difficult times of my life." 

Trowa turned halfway toward him, his expression dark and sad, but said nothing. 

"And he stood by all of us through the whole process of breaking the curse." 

Trowa nodded. 

"Whatever's happened to him now, I don't think he'll abandon us. He doesn't give up on people." He restrained himself from adding, _"Even when he should,"_ lest Trowa take it as a personal attack. Instead he finished up with, "We'll hear from him eventually." 

Brows lowered, Trowa hesitated a moment, then nodded again. He might have been about to speak, but was kept silent by the sounds coming from down the hall. 

Though Duo didn't seem to have any great problem being separated from Heero when it was necessary, still he tended to keep close by whenever they were together. Heero had no idea whether or not Duo had resumed being a 'sleeper-in,' as he'd once called himself, when Heero had to get up early and leave the apartment, but whenever Heero was at home it was rare for Duo to stay in bed much longer than Heero did. This was fortunate, since, even after all this time, the instinct to keep Duo close had not yet entirely faded. 

"Hey, Trois! Happy birthday!" Duo's cheer was very unfitting to just about every circumstance currently in place; Heero feared he _still_ wasn't taking this issue with Quatre seriously enough. Conversation yesterday while Heero had driven around town trying to pretend he was helping had indicated that Duo's sanguinity arose not from a disinclination to believe his friends that something was definitely wrong with Quatre, but from his great faith in Trowa's powers; Duo obviously thought Trowa would be able to snap his fingers or something and cure Quatre completely. That he of all people could have so much confidence in the abilities of the man that had been unable to find him for eighty-seven years and _then_ unable to figure out, except by chance, how to break his curse, Heero was more or less astonished, but he'd tried not to make a big issue out of it. 

"Thank you," said Trowa dourly. 

"Come on, come on," said Duo, the increased gentleness of his words seeming at odds with the words themselves, "it's your first birthday since you started aging again... you've got to enjoy it." 

Trowa sighed. 

"Duo, what do you want for breakfast?" Heero inquired, thinking to leave this conversation to them and busy himself in the kitchen. After yesterday's experience, he wasn't going to attempt a proper, recipe-based breakfast again until things were settled down, but there were plenty of other options. 

"Do we have any English muffins left?" Duo wondered as he took a seat next to Trowa on the couch. 

Heero had been living with human Duo for almost four months, and in a technical sense had been living with Duo for as long as he'd known him, but it was still possible for Duo to thrill him with a simple use of the word 'we' even in the middle of concern about another friend such as Heero was experiencing now. He was smiling as he answered, "I bought a new package." 

"Oh, good, then we can force Trowa to eat a couple too." 

"I don't really--" Trowa began, but Duo made a noise to stop him and held up an arbitrary hand. Heero, still smiling, turned to prepare some English muffins, jam-loaded for one of his companions and lightly-buttered for the other. His own he took with scrambled eggs, and he only wished he had occasion to round out the eight in the package with the sausage he knew Quatre had no use for English muffins without. 

Whether or not Duo's level of concern was appropriate to the situation, he definitely had that situation on his mind as he continued to address Trowa in that relatively gentle but still fairly cheerful tone. "You're a hundred and twelve today. It's not a very round number, but it's still a pretty important birthday! There's no way he'll ditch you." 

"He managed to avoid all of us all day yesterday," Trowa said dully. 

"Well, yes, but I'm sure that was just because he was trying to work off his annoyance or whatever." 

"I worked on spells for twelve hours straight." Trowa lifted his hands in a gesture of helplessness. "I can jump again now without too much trouble, but I can't use Quatre as a destination, and he wasn't anywhere I looked. If he ever went back to his bedroom last night, it was after I fell asleep." He sounded extremely regretful, almost miserably penitent, that he'd done so at all. "And he wasn't there just now when I checked again." 

"We'll find him," Duo reassured seriously. "He can't stay away forever, and if--" 

Heero glanced over when Duo cut off so abruptly, and found his boyfriend's eyes pointed across the room. Trowa too followed Duo's gaze, and soon all three of them were staring at where the door in the wall had opened and admitted the very subject of their conversation. 

Quatre closed the door behind him and stood before it, looking around at all of them, and Heero could already see the change. He didn't think it was just because he was seeking the signs, either; he would have noticed that something was off about Quatre's stance under any circumstances. 

"Wow," Quatre said, with a smile that appeared somewhat forced, "Heero's up before ten o'clock on a Sunday." 

Not only was this a completely reasonable observation, it was a tease that Quatre might well be expected to direct toward his best friend. But in this instance it seemed to come much more forcefully, much more sharply edged, than many a more serious remark from that source. 

"And hasn't even called me yet," Quatre went on. He still hadn't moved from before Trowa's door. "Whatever you were blowing up my phone about yesterday must be over with." 

Evidently Duo too felt the unusual edge to Quatre's tone, for now he stood from the couch somewhat impatiently and said, "No, it's not. We've all been worried about you." 

"'We've all,'" Quatre echoed, and the laugh he followed this with had a strange hardness to it. "Why am I not surprised to hear Duo saying that on behalf of all three of you? Oh, it's because my boyfriend and my best friend like to keep everything a secret from the people it's important to." 

This was another fairly legitimate point, and something Quatre had teased Heero about in the past -- specifically in relation to his reluctance to acquaint Duo with his feelings for him during the curse-breaking month -- but not only did it feel a little out of place at the moment, it too was delivered more sharply than teasing remarks from Quatre usually were. 

Trowa had also stood and turned to face Quatre, and now he said quietly, "I have at least one important thing to talk to you about right now." 

"Yes, well," allowed Quatre deprecatingly, "it's not usually actually _me_ who doesn't get told, since nobody thinks I'd ever get tired of hanging onto all their secrets for them." 

Heero had stepped to the edge of the kitchen with an intent locked gaze during Quatre's last couple of statements. For there was appearing around his friend -- or at least Heero was just starting to notice -- a faint glow, an aura of sorts, that seemed to rise from his body and stream upward. Whatever it was, it dissipated into the air as he spoke, though there was no apparent end to it. Heero had no clue what it was -- something magical, no doubt -- and he wondered if Trowa and Duo could detect it. 

In glancing at those two to see, he was distracted by the expression on Trowa's face: he looked hurt, and in such a way that it was clear Quatre's latest accusation had come as a complete surprise. What secrets, Heero wondered, had Quatre been keeping for Trowa that he was perhaps tired of hanging onto, and that Trowa didn't even like having referenced? 

Quatre appeared to have noticed the hurt expression as well, for he said, "I'm sorry" -- though the impatience in the phrase sapped any sound of sincerity it might have had, and that strange aura around him didn't diminish. "I know I'm in a bad mood, and I probably shouldn't be around people right now. But I was looking for you--" addressing Trowa specifically-- "to see if we're still doing something today." 

"Are we?" asked Trowa hesitantly, his face settling into a more placid look of general unease. 

"I don't know," replied Quatre impatiently. "It's _your_ birthday." 

"He may just want to stay here and celebrate with us." Clearly unhappy with Quatre's attitude, Duo had moved a step closer to Trowa in a show of solidarity and a somewhat alarming challenge against Quatre. 

Quatre's eyes narrowed as they flicked to Duo, and his tone sounded somewhat disdainful as he said, "Duo, go put a shirt on. I know you're happy to have a human body, but not everyone wants to see you half-naked all the time." 

Duo's brows went down and his mouth dropped open, but he didn't at first appear to have anything to say in reply to that. 

"Quatre." Even Heero didn't know whether that single word was a query what the hell was wrong, an admonishment not to talk to his boyfriend like that, or just a plea for Quatre to stop acting this way. 

"Something on your stove is burning, Heero," Quatre said dismissively, then turned his complete attention on Trowa. "Well, are we going somewhere or aren't we?" 

With a deep breath, seeming to rally, Trowa was probably realizing that if he didn't agree to go somewhere with Quatre right now, he would lose track of him again for another unknown length of time; as unpleasant as Quatre was to be around at the moment, Trowa couldn't afford to miss this chance to determine what was wrong with him and what he could do about it. "Yes," he said. "Yes, let's go." 

Quatre nodded sharply and turned. Before following him, Trowa shot a helpless glance at Heero and Duo. Then they two were left watching the door fall shut in stupefied silence.


	164. La Confrérie de la Lune Révéré Part 7

"What - the hell - was that." Duo couldn't take his eyes off Trowa's door, and he still hadn't managed to tighten his jaw back up from the disbelieving slackness Quatre had occasioned in it. 

"_Now_ you see why we were so worried," Heero muttered, the sound of his voice allowing Duo finally to look in that direction. Heero had already been frowning, but at his own words he made an even more bitter face, as if realizing they'd sounded very much like the acerbic Quatre that had just left. Abruptly he strode across the room to put his arms around Duo. "And _I_ don't mind seeing you half-naked all the time," he added penitently. 

Duo returned the embrace, though he found his eyes had been dragged back to Trowa's door and _his_ frown hadn't changed. "Good," he said absently. "Thank you. But... what the hell was that." 

"Something Trowa had better be able to fix." 

"Yeah, but what _was_ it? I've never seen Quatre that... _bitchy_... before. It seemed like every little thing was annoying him, and he was taking it out on us. And why was _pure magic_ coming off him the whole time?" 

Heero jerked back. "I saw that," he said in intense and serious interest. "Is that what it was?" 

"That's what it felt like, anyway -- just pure magical energy. I guess he picked it up somehow from the artifact when he destroyed it, but why would that make him _mad_ at everyone?" 

"So that's not anything you've heard of?" Heero wondered earnestly. "Someone destroying an artifact and it having that kind of effect?" 

Duo shook his head, more as an 'I don't know' than a negative. "I think most people aren't in the habit of destroying artifacts that powerful even if they have them around in the first place. People wouldn't usually have much reason to. Trowa didn't even really _need_ to get rid of this one, I think; I just think he felt like it was too much of a symbol of everything that happened." 

"He spent all day yesterday practicing spells," Heero said pensively. "He wasn't researching." 

"Well, he still needs to--" 

At the sound of Duo's somewhat defensive tone, Heero broke in hastily. "I'm not criticizing him. Of course he needs to figure out how to do all his regular magic again without the artifact. But _I_ want to know what's wrong with Quatre." 

"Maybe Trowa will call later to let us know he's fixed everything." Duo wasn't feeling nearly as hopeful about this as he had been yesterday, and it sounded in his voice. 

"I think I'm going to look around online and see if I can find out anything," Heero determined with a nod. "There's a lot of stuff online about magic; maybe somebody's heard of something like this." 

Considering that as good an idea as any at the moment, Duo gave Heero an encouraging kiss more or less at random (it landed on his cheekbone just by his ear), and said, "And I should put a shirt on." 

"I told you I don't mind." At the reference to Quatre's unpleasant comment to Duo, however, Heero was glancing around now to assess the truth of Quatre's unpleasant comment to him. Something on the stove _was_ burning; that was the second day in a row. 

"What was funny," Duo remarked as he headed for the bedroom, increasing his volume as he drew farther away from Heero, "was that he didn't say anything that wasn't totally true. Same with the stuff Trowa said he said on Friday night -- it was all _true_; it just wasn't like Quatre to say it." When Heero did not respond, he mused on. "Isn't there a faery tale where some guy got a piece of glass in his eye that made him see everything as ugly, so it turned him into a complete jerk? And his girlfriend had to cry it out for him or something?" 

Heero met him in the hallway. That he'd left the kitchen so soon probably meant there was another damaged pan to scrub, but Duo agreed that it could wait until later. "I'll check online for the effects of getting glass in your eye too," Heero said with that solemn facetiousness that was so consistently adorable in him. 

"If only it was likely to be that easy," Duo muttered as he followed Heero into the second bedroom. 

"Yeah," Heero agreed, taking his place before the computer and turning it on, "then all we'd have to do is find Quatre a girlfriend." 

Duo laughed and threw himself down onto the guest bed. Looking up at the popcorned ceiling, sobering, he lay silent for a while, but finally remarked, "He's not going to be happy about how he's been acting when this is over." 

"I know," Heero replied grimly. "Even if everything he said _was_ true. He only seemed a little annoyed... if he gets really angry, I don't know what he's likely to say." 

"Whatever secrets he's still holding onto--" and Duo couldn't quite keep the curiosity out of his voice as he said this-- "I bet he'll spill them if he gets really mad. So if any of them are about you," he added in a lighter tone, "you'd probably better tell them all to me now before Quatre does." He thought the implication of Quatre's complaint had been that Trowa far more than Heero had secrets Quatre didn't like keeping, but it would be absolutely inappropriate for Duo to question Trowa about this, so he was teasing Heero instead. 

Several moments of silence followed, but the lack of mouse clicks or keystrokes indicated Heero was still waiting for the computer to finish its forever-long process of booting up. Finally, in a completely serious tone, he said, "I can't think of any secrets I have from you. Quatre certainly knows a lot of my most embarrassing moments, but those aren't exactly secrets -- just things I won't tell anyone if I don't have to." 

"Like about your bookshelf," Duo grinned. 

"Yeah, that kind of thing." 

"Well, I'll try not to take advantage of the situation and make fun of you forever if he does happen to tell me anything like that." 

"Just like you've never made fun of what's on my bookshelf." 

"I don't make fun of what's on your bookshelf; I make fun of _you_ for being _embarrassed_ about what's on your bookshelf." 

"I think it was just last week you were following me around reading random selections from Goosebumps books in a very bad imitation of Vincent Price." 

"Yeah, but just to get your reaction! You do the best wincey embarrassed faces. And it wasn't Vincent Price; it was Boris Karloff." 

"A bad imitation of Boris Karloff _is_ a bad imitation of Vincent Price." 

Chuckling, Duo acceded to this point and then fell silent as Heero began his search process at last. 

In one way, he supposed, this behavior of Quatre's might have quite a good outcome. Trowa had spent so long living an unnecessary penance for what he'd accidentally done so many decades ago, had gotten into such an unhealthy habit of thinking of himself as a criminal of sorts that owed the world -- Duo in particular -- a degree of recompense he could never meet, that it might be very desirable to balance that out a trifle by having one of the most important people in his life penitently asking _his_ forgiveness -- which Duo was certain Quatre would do once he was cured of his present condition. It might help Trowa realize that mistakes were part of life and simply had to be lived down. 

But that, of course, was assuming Quatre could be cured before he got really angry and went too far, did something more truly damaging, said something more hurtful than just pointing out the obvious fact that both Trowa and Heero were taciturn or Duo was overly pleased with his own bare chest. Though Duo thought Quatre's friends would be willing to forgive him quite a bit, things might still get worse before they got better. Who knew how unkind Quatre was really capable of being, when magic was involved? 

Quatre was _not_ going to like looking back on all of this. Even what he'd said and done so far, Duo thought, would make him unhappy in retrospect. And in addition to the guilt of having been unpleasant to his friends, there would be the recollection of having been influenced by magic, of at least certain aspects of his life having been out of his control because of a power he couldn't fight. _There_ was a road Duo had been down; he couldn't imagine that adding feelings of personal culpability to that remembered helplessness would make for a more pleasant state of mind. 

This train of thought brought him inevitably back around to the therapy idea from yesterday. He'd thought about it off and on since then, never terribly happily, and usually pushed it away after not too long, but it was about time he admitted to himself the conclusion that had been growing on his mental horizon. 

He did need therapy. _Of course_ he needed therapy. Probably most people did, in one way or another, to some degree. In his case it was fundamentally obvious, undeniable. And it wasn't even as if he disliked the thought of _going through_ therapy. He didn't like the thought that he might be... damaged... might _need_ therapy, but the thought of the treatment itself wasn't particularly disturbing. Actually he might even specifically relish the idea of pouring out every last little thing he felt in relation to the curse and his unnaturally long life without having to worry about hurting his listener. In his head, he couldn't even _begin_ to pretend he didn't need therapy. 

It was just the way Heero had presented the concept -- so abruptly, and yet in a manner that seemed to indicate they were already in the middle of the business, that things had already been decided and put in motion without any input from Duo -- that had caused Duo to become defensive and reject the suggestion in its entirety. 

He needed therapy; Trowa needed therapy; Quatre would probably need therapy after this business was over; if he looked hard enough, he could probably come up with a reason for Heero to need therapy too; they were all therapy patients together. It was _fine_. But Duo still didn't really want to think about it. 

Over at the computer desk, Heero had gone from muttering occasionally to himself as he came up with different ways to word his searches to silent stillness, so Duo assumed he was reading something. Pushing aside what he didn't want to think about, he asked hopefully, "Anything good?" 

"No," said Heero, slowly and only after a long moment, with the air of one shaking himself from distraction. "No, nothing yet. I'll tell you when I find something." 

So Duo continued to stare at the ceiling.


	165. La Confrérie de la Lune Révéré Part 8

  


Quatre had seemed so intent on _going somewhere_ to celebrate Trowa's birthday, despite his current mood being about as far from celebratory as Trowa could imagine, that Trowa hadn't dared suggest they spend the day quietly at home instead. Inability to jump them both somewhere he could, perhaps, have used as an excuse, but not only was he disinclined to lie to Quatre, he also feared that Quatre might interpret 'at home' as 'at their separate homes' and simply leave him. So he'd tried to come up with someplace he knew well enough to teleport to that would be interesting enough for a birthday and where he could quietly observe Quatre (and possibly cast some spells) to try to figure out what had happened to him. 

The Loretto Chapel in Santa Fe had made a sufficient impression on him that he felt he could successfully jump them there, but Quatre reminded him cuttingly that New Mexico in August was likely to roast them both alive. When he suggested Paris, Quatre wondered at his lack of originality. The idea of visiting Niagara Falls (where Trowa wasn't even _entirely_ sure he could take them at this point) was dismissed without much explanation as Quatre asked impatiently whether Trowa couldn't think of any destination where they could go swimming. 

Very unwillingly but seeing no good alternative, Trowa brought up Traverse City and its freshwater beaches. Given that he had no pleasant memories of the place, he didn't really want to return, but that he had several years' worth of memories of it at all -- outdated though they were -- meant he could probably get them there without too much trouble, and it was the first idea Quatre didn't seem to scorn completely. Besides, if Quatre was going to make this entire day unpleasant for him, that activity might as well take place somewhere that couldn't be tainted by the experience because Trowa already associated it primarily with unpleasantness from his childhood. 

During the century since he'd hitchhiked away from it, Trowa had revisited Traverse a handful of times for different reasons, and had seen how it had changed; in 2010, it was so vastly different a place than it had been in 1906 that only the lakeshores made it at all recognizable. But there was a certain soul to a city that didn't alter nearly so much even over such a stretch of time, a soul he'd become eminently familiar with on its streets as a child, and this was what allowed him to jump there despite all the cosmetic changes and modernization that had taken place since then. 

The idea was to take a hiking trail that led to a beach, where they could then spend the rest of the day lounging or swimming or feeling awkward and unhappy or whatever turned out to be the case; as such, the first step was to obtain some clothing appropriate for these activities, since Trowa owned no hiking apparel and Quatre's existing swimwear was still wet at home from yesterday. So they endured a silent bus ride, during which Quatre gave many of the other commuters an openly dark eye for no apparent reason, to a shopping center that contained the store Quatre had looked up on his phone and declared dogmatically that they wanted. 

At this store, after a disparaging decree that it wasn't necessary to dress like it was still the 1940's, Quatre essentially made Trowa's selections for him, then remarked, when Trowa would have paid for their purchases, "I make a lot of money, Trowa. Or am I not allowed to buy you birthday presents?" 

In reference to their second bus ride, this one to near the beginning of the trail Quatre had chosen, he had the somewhat snide comment, "I don't think I've been on a _bus_ for this long since I was in high school. I usually rent a car or take a cab when I'm out of town." 

Between Quatre's unpleasant behavior and Trowa's unpleasant recollections -- not to mention the fact that Trowa wasn't in nearly as good physical condition as Quatre was, and already a little tired from the spell he'd used to bring them here in the first place -- Trowa was cowed, and their hike began and progressed in extremely uncomfortable silence. He was grateful that it wasn't too difficult a trail; he wouldn't have been terribly surprised if Quatre in his current state had chosen a much more intense one to punish Trowa for not being as fit as he should. As it was, the very rugged hiking boots Quatre had bought him weren't entirely necessary. They were also threatening to blister Trowa's heels. 

At least the forest didn't hold a lot of memories. It had been the streets his mother had taken him up and down all day back then, looking for simple tasks they could do for money, errands either of them could run, or even, on occasion, unwatched objects that could be stolen. But though the streets had changed beyond recognition and he was currently walking a dirt path, just being here must remind him. 

He tried to do what he'd come to do, tried to concentrate on Quatre, whose businesslike stride spoke more of getting this over with than enjoying the hike. If he could determine what had gone wrong on Friday night, perhaps he could mend it. Perhaps the day and even his impression of this area could be salvaged to some extent. But he doubted it. 

The aura Quatre had been giving off definitely matched the power from the candlestick; Trowa would know that power anywhere, automatically. What it _meant_, however, that Quatre had apparently absorbed power from the artifact he'd destroyed, Trowa wasn't sure. There were some magical conditions with which Trowa was slightly familiar that seemed similar to Quatre's current state -- especially given that Quatre appeared to expend some of that magical energy whenever he said something uncharacteristically cutting -- but not in any way that provided any immediate solution. 

Well, if Quatre was carrying power that had previously filled the lunar artifact, perhaps that made _Quatre_, in a sense, an artifact -- and in that case, Trowa might be able to tap into that power. And if that power was what made Quatre so unpersonable, perhaps Trowa could use it up and thereby restore Quatre to his normal self. It seemed worth a try. 

Having spent so long attuned to this particular energy, Trowa had no difficulty getting back onto the same wavelength now; he could very easily sense the power Quatre was releasing, and should be able to use it deliberately just as he had done for all those years with the artifact. So he murmured a simple spell. 

"Hey!" Quatre jerked as if he'd been hurt, and, ceasing his steps, turned abruptly to face Trowa. "What are you trying to do, turn me into a doll or something?" 

Trowa's breath caught, and he thought his body visibly mimicked Quatre's in its pained stiffening. 

Observing this, Quatre looked appalled -- though his horror appeared to be mixed equally with anger, this time mostly at himself. "I'm sorry," he said at once. "That was completely inappropriate." 

Standing still where he'd stopped, Trowa felt he couldn't quite breathe properly, as if Quatre's words had been a slamming blow to his chest that had robbed him of air and briefly paralyzed his lungs. As they stared at each other in silence for a long moment, somebody jogged past. 

"I'm sorry," Quatre said again. This time, though still penitent, he sounded impatient, as if annoyed that Trowa hadn't yet offered some sign of forgiveness. 

Trowa, who still couldn't speak, just shook his head. 

"Whatever spell you were trying," Quatre said, evidently taking the headshake for the sign he wanted, "wasn't fun, so don't do it again." 

Trowa nodded. 

They restarted, their slightly slower pace perhaps a testament to Quatre's continued regret for what he'd said. Eventually Trowa was once more able to breathe right, but the aftershock of Quatre's comment took much longer to fade. And recalling firmly that Quatre was under a magical influence that was rendering _all_ his statements unnaturally unkind did very little to lessen the pain of having been so casually reminded of something horrific and inhumane Trowa had once done and could, conceivably, do again. Something for which he and his best friend had suffered for eighty-seven years. Something Quatre himself had been, up until now, assisting Trowa in recovering from. 

The thought that gradually overcame Trowa's pain and allowed him to concentrate was that, though Quatre's response had certainly been disproportionate to the provocation, still Trowa had caused him discomfort with his spell. He'd hurt Quatre, and hadn't even accomplished anything in so doing. For the attempt at making use of the energy Quatre was infected with hadn't worked; though he could still sense it even now, and though it still _seemed_ to be the same energy he'd been using all these years, Trowa hadn't been able to grasp it, to connect with it in a practical way. 

That, he thought, arose from the fact that it _wasn't_ the same energy. In the moment of his spell, he'd been able to sense that the power had altered somehow so that it wasn't quite the same as it had been in the candlestick. The difference was something Trowa couldn't quite grasp, something just beyond his comprehension, but he thought that was what had defied his attempt to make use of it. He felt as if there probably _was_ some way to draw the energy out of Quatre, but trying to use it in a spell wasn't it. 

If Quatre wasn't a usable artifact, then, what next? Little faith as he had in his own powers of divination at the moment, Trowa couldn't help trying a brief string of questions. 

Had the power Quatre now contained come from the lunar artifact? 

Yes. 

How had that power been transferred into Quatre? 

A vision of Quatre out in Trowa's shed, the muscles of his arms bulging as he brought an old axe down with hard and calculated precision on the candlestick. 

_Why_ had destroying the artifact transferred its power to Quatre? 

No answer. 

Quatre resumed his previous quick, somewhat annoyed pace at these muttered divining queries, and Trowa wondered whether he was irritated at having the magical language spoken incomprehensibly beside him with no explanation or whether he'd seen something. Non-magical people didn't get proper visions in response to divinations, but they did sometimes see things; and since one of the visions that had come to Trowa had been something Quatre himself had actually done, that particular memory might have been triggered in Quatre's mind by the spell. Trowa hurried to catch up. 

"First you cast something that hurts," Quatre remarked, "and then you exclude me entirely." 

Trowa cleared his throat, searching quickly for something he could say that would explain the divinations he'd just been doing. It would have to be a lie, since mentioning what he was actually trying to figure out, he feared, would be counterproductive. He fixed on the first thing that came to mind that he might logically be conducting divinations about. "Did you know I'm related to someone you work with?" 

Quatre threw him a quick, narrow-eyed glance that seemed first to wonder how this question was related to what he'd said and then to ponder the words. "Catharine?" he guessed. 

"That's right. She believes we're fourth cousins, but it appears she's descended from a brother I didn't know I had." 

Though he'd looked away, Quatre's lips were pursed and his eyes remained narrowed. Finally he said, "And _that's_ what you're thinking about right now?" 

Recognizing that he had perhaps made things worse with his choice of topic, Trowa still had no idea what else he could have said. "Yes," he replied neutrally. 

"That's great. I'm so happy for you. You're out hiking with your boyfriend to celebrate your birthday -- you _claim_ to have been worried about him all day yesterday -- and you're casting spells to figure out who your great-great-great-grand-niece is. Very appropriate. Did you even remember I was here?" 

It probably wouldn't do much good, but Trowa tried what he hoped would be a soothing explanation. "Being in Michigan again suddenly reminded me that Cathy said her family--" 

"'Cathy?'" Quatre broke in bitingly. "Nobody at work calls her that. When were you planning on telling me you'd gotten so close to her behind my back?" 

Now Trowa was fighting the urge to mirror his lover's anger. The normal Quatre would never make an accusation like that, and Trowa should not react the way he would if the normal Quatre had said it. "I've talked to her once," he said tersely, "at your office. We determined we're related, and she told me to call her Cathy. I don't see a problem with that." 

As annoyed as Quatre obviously was, it appeared he couldn't see a problem with that either, for he continued his quick walk in huffy silence. 

Further divination was probably not a good idea right now; Quatre would only assume Trowa was continuing to question the universe about Cathy and his relationship with her, and would go on being jealous or whatever he was about it. So Trowa just studied Quatre wordlessly, trying once again to pinpoint what it was that had changed about the energy he was giving off. 

It seemed eventually that Quatre felt bad about his part in the preceding conversation, for he tried to open a new one on a lighter note. He still sounded incongruously annoyed as he asked, "Didn't you say you were born in Michigan?" 

Unfortunately, the topic was ill-chosen. The normal Quatre would have kept in consideration the fact that Trowa always avoided talking about his early history, and would not have thrown out a question about it as part of an attempt at improving the atmosphere between them. "Yes," was all Trowa said. 

When Quatre appeared to become aware that this was the only answer he was going to get, he made an annoyed gesture that seemed to say, _"Fine. If you don't want to talk, then neither do I,"_ and closed his mouth for the entire remainder of the hike. 

If Trowa hadn't already felt unhappy and awkward and concerned, it certainly didn't help his mood when the trees thinned and then opened out, leaving them on a little rise overlooking the shops and boardwalk preceding a gorgeous golden beach and the great blue expanse of Lake Michigan beyond. Because it had only been a month before that he'd spent a gloriously happy couple of days with a kind and loving Quatre on a different golden beach with a boardwalk and a great blue expanse, and comparing that vacation with today was dismal and disheartening in the extreme. 

Quatre set off wordlessly down some steps that had been set into the trail to ease the grade of the descending path, and Trowa reluctantly followed him. He couldn't quite say this was the _worst_ birthday he'd ever had -- the same fixed superlatives as ever still applied -- but so far it was certainly close.


	166. La Confrérie de la Lune Révéré Part 9

Trowa's warning had not been untimely. Heero wondered how he would have reacted to this if he hadn't been given a heads-up beforehand that he would start hearing Duo's thoughts sometime soon. 

From a sort of buzz at first, almost as if some of his own thoughts were developing too lazily and obscurely for him to understand properly, it had grown into an undeniable awareness of conceptions not his own, silent statements he hadn't formed. Still they were vague -- nothing more than general impressions, really -- but they were suffused with the idea of Duo, and that familiar and beloved sense served, to some extent, to smooth over a feeling that was odd and might otherwise have been frightening. 

Heero believed himself extremely lucky. What if this had started at work, and it had been the thoughts of half the sales floor he'd begun picking up on? He was silently grateful to Trowa for letting him know this would happen, and grateful to Duo just for being here when it did... even if he wasn't terribly pleased at what he was hearing blurrily from Duo's head. 

That Heero really had screwed up yesterday was clear. It seemed so simplistically obvious, in retrospect, that he should talk to Duo first about something so personal, but somehow that had not occurred to him. And now Duo was reflecting unhappily about therapy and the manner in which Heero had presented that idea. The specifics of those thoughts Heero still wasn't getting, but the gist of it was clear, and made him feel guilty and uneasy. 

"Anything good?" Duo asked suddenly, under the impression that Heero's long silence resulted from something other than being suddenly captivated by the awareness of his boyfriend's thoughts. 

He was going to have to tell Duo about this, and soon: you couldn't neglect to inform someone, especially someone so close, that you could hear any thought he didn't actively try to hide from you. But it would probably be a lengthy conversation, and, no matter how interesting it was to be able to tap into Duo's brainwaves, Heero had something crucial and possibly time-sensitive to work on right now. So, "No," he said, forcing himself to concentrate on the computer in front of him even as Duo's reflections continued behind him. He opened a new window and tried another search. "No, nothing yet. I'll tell you when I find something." 

On the potential dangers of destroying artifacts, the internet did have some interesting information. Apparently, as made perfect sense, an artifact's magical energy was released all at once upon its destruction, which could affect spells and cause general havoc. If the artifact had borne some specific affinity, then some specific and potentially unwanted effect could be triggered as well -- for example, the destruction of a fire-related item might set its surroundings aflame. Heero didn't know how this would apply to an artifact with an affinity with the moon, nor did most of these details seem to help much. 

"Have you heard of this artifact power scale?" he asked after a while -- partially because he really wanted to know, and partially because Duo's thoughts were distracting him. 

"Yeah, a little. They number them one through five, don't they?" 

"It looks like some of them use numbers, and some of them use names." Heero scrolled down. "But since there are six names, they don't line up perfectly with the five numbers. Oh, and here's a _third_ scale... this one has three named classifications that each have three numbered subcategories." 

"That sounds like magicians," Duo admitted with a half grin. This led him, fairly naturally, to start thinking about Trowa and Trowa's lengthy experience as a magician, and wondering what Trowa and Quatre were up to and whether Trowa had made any progress or useful discoveries. 

It was painfully obvious that Heero was going to have to learn to deal with intruding thoughts if he was ever to get any work done again. Remembering what Trowa had said, Heero guessed that he might not start hearing the thoughts of people he wasn't as close to for a while, so this was the perfect chance -- perhaps the only chance -- to practice. He took a deep breath and firmly directed his endeavors. 

At least with these classifications of artifact power, he had terms he could use for more productive searches. However, 'destroying a level 5 artifact,' 'destroying a Roussel-class artifact,' and 'destroying a rank 1 major artifact' all continually gave him the same answer: you wouldn't. These types of artifacts were rare, extremely powerful, and could make someone practically omnipotent; if anyone had ever been crazy enough to want to give all that up by destroying such an artifact, the effects of that action had not been discussed on the internet. 

Of course Heero couldn't be certain that Trowa's candlestick had fallen into these most powerful categories, but even bumping his search terms down a notch didn't give him any good results. People just didn't destroy these higher-level items -- which made sense for anyone lacking the trauma associated with one that Trowa had. On the chance that Trowa's artifact had actually been _more_ powerful than the generally acknowledged levels, Heero looked into that too... but, while he did find a few references to the rumored existence of uniquely powerful artifacts considerably stronger than even the strongest within the accepted scales, this phrase 'uniquely powerful' didn't seem to be universal enough among magicians to turn up any decent information. 

Changing his tactics, he searched for 'artifact magic condition changed attitude angry insulting,' and this, finally, appeared to yield some real results. Interestingly, these results only started after Google had given him almost nothing for his entire string of terms and suggested instead the removal of 'artifact' from the lineup for a better response. That seemed a fairly crucial word under the circumstances, but Heero's attention was caught by the first suggestion beneath the amended query. 

Duo's thoughts had evolved from wondering what Trowa and Quatre were doing today to wondering about certain details of their sex life. Though Heero considered this not a terribly unusual train of thought for a man about his friends, it was extremely distracting -- not least because Heero happened to know the answer (Quatre was sometimes disturbingly open with him on such topics), and wondered how Duo would react if he just casually provided it out of the blue like a pornographic Sherlock Holmes. 

Instead he said, "Hey, listen to this," and was satisfied with the attention Duo gave him. "_Red shades are the angry kind. You'll know when someone is haunted by a red shade because it seems like they've changed overnight from a nice person into a total jerk. Symptoms are different for everyone, since everyone is different when they're mad, but they often include a bad mood that seems to last forever without getting better, getting angry about nothing, taking out their anger on little things (like kicking the furniture), saying rude or insulting things to people, and just generally being more violent than usual._" 

"God, shades?" Duo demanded in despair. He'd sat up from where he'd previously been lying on his back staring at the ceiling. "None of us is necrovisual! If Quatre's haunted, I don't know what we'll do about it." 

Heero pointed out, "If Quatre's haunted, at least that's something people know about." 

"But it doesn't quite fit," protested Duo. "I've never heard of somebody who was haunted having that kind of aura Quatre did." 

Continuing to look the page over, Heero shook his head. "No," he agreed slowly, "it says here that he should have an aura of shade energy if this is what's happening to him. Though... I'm not sure what... No, here it is: shade energy is emotion combined with death energy. And you said Quatre's aura felt like pure magic." 

Duo nodded, frowning. 

"So this probably isn't it." Heero was reluctant to move on from the site, however, and continue his pursuit of Quatre's symptoms elsewhere; the description of a red shade victim seemed so fitting for Quatre's current state. So he skimmed down to glance over the other sections of the page, just in case. 

_Humans can release huge amounts of emotion when they die, but even if the shade is enormous and even if the victim has completely taken it all in, they have to use it up eventually. Everything they do that expresses the shade emotion will let off some of the energy, so eventually it will disappear. But if there's a lot of it, it can have major negative affects on their life before they manage to get rid of it, so if you don't want to wait, you may want to consider an exorcism._

Here Heero followed a link leading to a page about exorcism methods. Apparently shade energy could be deliberately absorbed by someone else (who then had to deal with the excess emotion themselves), defeated with willpower channeled through a physical weapon, or ritually banished through some process whose description made it sound so complicated and difficult that Heero didn't read it all the way through. None of this helped, since these were all things necrovisual people did; as Duo had mentioned, that wasn't any of Quatre's friends. 

Just the word 'necrovisual,' however, was sparking a memory in Heero that, what with the distracting noise of Duo's thoughts in the way, he couldn't quite grasp. "Where do I remember hearing someone talk about being necrovisual?" 

"Um..." Duo thought for a moment, causing Heero to get a mental visual half an instant before the words, "Dorothy. In the work parking lot." 

"Yeah, that was it. What was it she said she did?" 

"I think... didn't she say something about an exorcist? I think she said she's only a little necrovisual." 

"But she's probably enough to look at Quatre and tell us whether he's haunted." When Duo enthusiastically agreed, Heero finished with a sigh, "Too bad she's on vacation this whole coming week." 

"Where?" asked the disappointed Duo. 

"She's doing a caving tour. I think she said she's starting with something near San Francisco, but she's going to be all over the place." Heero turned back to the computer. "Anyway, this site says that for someone who's haunted there are two options: leave them alone and let them work off the shade energy by themselves, or have the shade exorcised." 

"So it's good information to have, anyway. If he _is_ haunted, he'll get better on his own eventually no matter what we do. We can keep trying to figure out what's wrong with him, but keep our fingers crossed that it really is just a shade that'll go away after a while." 

"And if it hasn't gone away and we haven't found the real answer by the time Dorothy's back in town, she may have some insight." 

Duo nodded emphatically. Though nothing had really changed, he was clearly relieved at having a slightly better handle on the situation -- even if it might be based on totally misplaced expectations. Heero couldn't say he felt the same -- or at least not to quite the same degree -- but even with just vague impressions, Duo's relief was like a little sunlamp whose warmth he could bask in on a small scale. 

Therefore it was in a slightly better frame of mind that he turned back to the computer again and continued his research, looking for another possible answer even as he held the first he'd found in a sort of reserve.


	167. La Confrérie de la Lune Révéré Part 10

  


Many aspects of Duo's previous human life felt like little more than a dream to him these days. Certainly during the long sleepless years, those memories had been the only type of dream he'd been capable of seeing. Of course his inability to sleep as a doll had often caused him to think about his frequent difficulties sleeping as a human, but for all the time he'd spend ruminating on this topic, he'd never been able to recall that his insomnia before the curse had arisen from any reasonable cause. He just, he'd always figured, had too much energy. He'd certainly never, until now, considered that having a lot on his mind might be part of it. 

That he was a very low-stress person he'd never doubted, but it couldn't possibly be a coincidence that, the night before he started his first job in eighty-seven years, simultaneously worried about his potential need for therapy, he'd taken hours to fall asleep and then had the devil of a time staying there. And these were not the only things on his mind; undoubtedly it was more than just his own concerns that had disturbed his rest. 

Trowa had called last night to report his lack of progress throughout the time he'd spent with Quatre yesterday. Trowa didn't use phones much, and calling Heero in particular was very like calling from two rooms away, but apparently he'd been at the end of what face-to-face interaction he could handle for the day. Of course that meant he'd talked to someone not nearly so inclined to offer copious amounts of verbal comfort as Duo would have been, but at least Heero had been able to convey his theory about red shade haunting to Trowa in his own words. Duo hadn't needed to hear the other half of the conversation to observe that Trowa was dismissive of the idea, which had engendered some coolness; but he'd also thought Heero had taken pains not to get snippy with a friend that had clearly already had a wretched day. 

That today would be significantly better Duo doubted. Even if Trowa did manage to figure out what was wrong with his boyfriend, he would still have to convince the unusually grouchy Quatre to submit to the cure -- assuming Trowa, in his less powerful and relearning state, was even capable of carrying out that cure immediately or ever. If he didn't figure out what was wrong, he would simply be waiting, along with Duo and Heero, to see whether or not Quatre could work off the anger on his own. It was nothing pleasant to look forward to. 

And yet, in the face of the worrisome unknown, Duo was very little but excited at the coming day's prospects (though how much of that excitement was purely positive he couldn't quite calculate). 

He'd become so used to largely ignoring Heero's alarm clock that, despite still feeling draggingly tired when it went off, despite any stress-based lack of proper rest, he was immediately energized by the novelty of having to respond to the repetitive beeping and get up. As Duo rolled out of bed, disarraying the blanket (they needed a bigger bed), Heero turned onto his side and pulled the cover back up over his shoulder and head in an abrupt movement like a villain with an evil cape. Duo chuckled, yawned, and headed for the bathroom. 

Heero had showered last night after many hours at the computer, and Duo with him -- but not only were mutual showers far less productive (of thorough cleanliness) than the solitary kind, Duo also happened to really like showers, and felt he could use the simultaneously soothing and galvanizing influence right now. So he coiled his braid up and put a cap on it and removed what little he was wearing. He didn't waste time, though; he was out of the water again before Heero managed to drag himself into the bathroom. 

"Happy job day," Heero said as he reached for his toothbrush. 

"Thank you!" Duo replied in great satisfaction. There might be some uneasiness about today lingering in his subconscious, but in general he didn't feel terribly concerned about starting work. That he had other sources of concern could not render him less happy to be making a new beginning as a human that could earn his own money. Therefore, though still yawning, he was very cheerful as he went into the kitchen to dig up breakfast. 

During the months that had passed since the curse was broken, Duo had visited Heero at work several times and been able to introduce himself to several of Heero's acquaintances there. Between this and all the time he'd spent at the office as a doll, he was familiar enough with the place and many of its employees... but his dearest wish had yet to be fulfilled. So his attitude about the day went from hopeful to ecstatic when, turning a corner of a second-floor hallway of the Winner Plastics Lexington office, he encountered, beside a water-cooler he'd never yet actually seen used by anyone, Wufei. 

The latter was busy with his phone, but not only did Duo get the overwhelming impression that he would be more than happy with any interruption that would allow him to show off the device, Duo also did not care whether or not Wufei minded being bothered at the moment. 

"Hey!" He moved enthusiastically forward. "You must be Wufei! I've seen you a couple of times, but I never got the chance to talk to you!" 

As Wufei glanced up from (but did not put away or even lower) his phone, he looked specifically interested. "Likewise," he said. "And your name is Duo." 

Duo wished he would follow this up with, _"Do you want to know how I knew?"_ \-- mostly because he longed to hear Wufei say it, but also because he was a little curious about whose conversations Wufei had been listening in on to catch Duo's name. Unfortunately, not wanting to be late on his first day, he didn't have time to try to draw out all his favorite Wufei lines. So he said, "I recognized you right away because Heero's told me so much about you, and I figure you're the only hot Chinese guy working here." 

He thought he felt a sort of wince behind him, but wasn't sure whether his boyfriend was bothered most by the flirtation, the implication that Heero had ever referred to Wufei as a 'hot Chinese guy,' or merely the suggestion that Heero talked about Wufei any more than was absolutely necessary. Duo hadn't been able to help himself, though. 

Wufei was momentarily silent, and Duo reflected uncharitably that he probably wasn't used to people walking up and calling him hot. He _was_ hot, though, objectively speaking, even with the huge glasses, so maybe it was less that people never pointed this fact out, and more the happy idea of his good friend Heero having been talking about him so much, that kept him briefly wordless. Whatever the case, he recovered quickly. 

"First of all, thank you for the compliment." He had such a hilarious self-important seriousness to his speech; Duo was _so_ happy to be here. "Secondly, I'm honored to meet you at last." And he offered a hand. 

Duo took this in both of his for a warm and enthusiastic handshake. "I'm starting here today," he said, not letting go, "so I can't hang around, but I'm sure I'll see you again soon." He wanted to laugh, not only at Wufei's slightly nonplussed expression, but simply out of joy at this interaction and the fact that he was here at all. 

"Yes, I'm sure that will be the case." Once Wufei's hand was free, he made rather a show of setting his phone on vibrate before putting it away as he added, "Welcome aboard. If you have any questions, feel free to contact me." 

As they moved on down the hallway, passing the doors onto the sales floor since Heero was escorting Duo to his training destination, Duo fully expected some comment on the fact that the plan for messing with Wufei was already getting started, or on Wufei's pomposity in offering workplace assistance right in front of someone that was both Duo's boyfriend and corporate superior. But what Heero actually said, in a low tone, was, "You didn't sleep well last night, but you seem OK now." 

"Oh, did I wake you up?" Duo wondered in some concern. 

"No, it was fine. I'm just glad you're feeling all right now." 

"Well, I _am_ tired," admitted Duo. "But, yeah, I'm OK." With a grin he added, "You have no idea how happy I am to be here." 

Heero smiled. "I can guess." After a glance around, he squeezed Duo's hand; apparently that was as far as he was willing to proceed in a hallway at work. "This is the place. When she lets you go for lunch, come find me and I'll take lunch then too." 

Duo nodded, returned the squeeze of hand, and, releasing Heero, turned toward the door they'd stopped at. 

The initial paperwork _did_ turn out to be a little stressful, if only because it involved a lot of information any normal person (anyone that had been human most or all of his life) would know off the top of his head without having to try to remember from when a friend had gathered it for him from various sources and given it to him in a long list to memorize. However, the hiring manager, Joyce, whom Duo had met a couple of times before, was patient and good-natured and never gave Duo any strange looks, even when he had to pull out his new Social Security card (twice) in order to transcribe the number because he kept forgetting part of it. 

When that process was finished, he was introduced to training manager Latasia, whose wedding ring and response in kind made her perfect to flirt with, which helped put Duo at his ease. She explained the training process, warned him frankly about how tedious it would be before he reached the stage where he was actually working with a living person, and showed him how to access the videos and modules he needed on the computer with a generic login until his information was in the system. Then she left him with a list of what to watch and what to complete. 

He almost couldn't believe he was already racking up money for this. The idea of earning wages every hour -- rather than the daily, weekly, or by-task basis used by every previous job he'd held -- had long dazzled him; the idea of earning wages sitting around watching absolutely hilarious pantomimes of potential workplace problems and how to deal with them was nearly incredible. 

Of course the real beginning had been back in May on the balcony of the apartment he shared with Heero, and there had been numerous points of progress since then, but still he felt as if this was the first step into a new world. It was definitely an early step toward the autonomy he so deeply craved, and he was so happy with it that he actually had to bend his will toward focusing on what he was supposed to be doing and not just sitting here, possibly in tears, thinking in ecstasy about how he really was a human adult capable of contributing to society and taking care of himself. 

He couldn't wait for lunch, when he could share all of these amazing feelings with Heero.


	168. La Confrérie de la Lune Révéré Part 11

  


As it turned out, Heero could not hear Duo's thoughts from all the way down the hall. But he knew the very moment Duo appeared on the sales floor at around 12:30, not only because of the growing psychic perception of Duo's presence, but from the chaotic sounds that sprang up immediately upon Duo's entrance. 

It was somewhat amusing to note that the people flocking to meet Heero's boyfriend were the same that had been first in line to stare at Heero's doll. Those that hadn't met Duo yet were sure to notice now, as others had one at a time throughout the summer, how much the one resembled the other. In preparation for this, Heero had forced himself to come up with a cover story of sorts at last... but since he hadn't been inclined to provide any explanation for Duo's presence on his desk in April, he wasn't sure how likely he was to feel like explaining the similarity to this newly arrived human in August. 

Duo's progress toward Heero's cubicle had ground to a halt not far from his destination as he'd picked up followers like a magnet gathering spilled pins. This allowed Heero, thankfully, to listen to the conversation without having to take part in it as he wrapped up what he was working on. 

Hearing Duo flirt with half the ladies on the sales floor was not as unsettling as the earlier flirtation with Wufei had been, but Heero had a feeling he needed to accustom himself to observing flirtation from Duo directed at anyone and everyone. At the moment, Duo appeared to have set aside his trauma relating to Hilde's breasts and busied himself complimenting (of all things) her hair, after which he managed to find some excuse to estimate Carol's age a good decade lower than it really was. Stephanie received an exaggerated start and the immediate explanation that Duo had been mightily struck with the brilliant coordination of her outfit. 

Heero, who'd stood from his chair and was now watching the proceedings over the wall of his cubicle, rolled his eyes, but couldn't help smiling a little too. The gossipy nature of the sales crowd arose from their being such sociable people, which, in turn, made them better at sales, and he couldn't really blame them for their interest (though he might have blamed them a bit more if he'd been in the middle of the group rather than observing from the edge). They had a number of questions and comments for Duo, and a lot to say about the nature of this job, and the jovial, disorganized conversation got louder and louder as minutes passed. 

But not as loud as the sudden demand from one of the doors, "What the hell is going on in here?" 

Heero had so rarely heard that voice raised -- particularly in anger -- that he didn't even immediately recognize it. The room went wordless in a quick wave that spread from the doors, which allowed him to hear the next few statements clearly despite their being quieter. 

"I hope everyone in here who's abusing my time clock remembers that performance reviews are coming up." Quatre was visible now, having quickly penetrated the suddenly uneasy crowd and approached Duo with a scowl. "And _you_ shouldn't even be in here until you're in partner training." 

Heero could detect in his boyfriend simultaneous annoyance in response to Quatre's bellicose tone, fear that he might be in trouble, and pitying concern at this sign of continued irrational anger, but Duo's struggle not to reply at all lest he say the wrong thing was short-lived. For Quatre turned abruptly from him toward Heero's cubicle, over whose wall he locked eyes with his best friend even as he snapped out his name. 

In addition to startlement at being so suddenly the object of Quatre's wrath, Heero was conscious of some annoyance at the tone, a little fear that he might be in trouble, and plenty of pitying concern -- and the knowledge that he and Duo felt the same added an incongruous note of pleased and amused fascination to his emotional mix. He was glad Quatre couldn't read his mind. 

What Quatre _could_ do was bad enough. "It's only Monday, and things are already falling apart in here. You're acting Sales Manager all week; you're going to have to pull your head out of the sand and take charge for once. Don't forget _your_ performance review is coming up too." 

He had believed himself adequately braced for Quatre's behavior, but realized at this moment that he'd only thought so because nothing Quatre had said thus far had stung _him_. Watching a friend and even a lover hurt by this strange condition certainly hadn't been pleasant, and had done _something_ to prepare him, but until his best friend of ten years had actually directed a cutting remark specifically at _him_, he hadn't been capable of being truly ready. But now he'd been inaugurated into the club of Quatre's victims, and didn't know how to respond. 

It made no difference; Quatre had already given a frustrated huffing sigh and turned away. "Don't let me find this kind of circus in here again," he commanded as he stalked out of the room. 

Stunned silence, just such as had hung in Heero's apartment after Quatre's departure thence yesterday morning, filled his wake, and nobody moved for several seconds. Even those that hadn't been part of the chattering crowd around Duo had risen from their desks when Quatre had entered, and they too now stood staring. Many eyebrows were high and many jaws were low. Even Wufei, not the most socially perceptive of all the sales staff, looked surprised. In fact it was he that broke the silence: 

"Something cataclysmic appears to have happened to our Regional Manager." 

Everyone started talking at once, and many of them were throwing pensive glances at Duo. Astonishment, confusion, unhappiness, even resentment were voiced in low tones, but though Heero thought everyone was wondering and many starting to speculate, he couldn't clearly hear any of their theories. Eventually, he knew, they would ask him. And he, still recovering from the smart of Quatre's words, hadn't a clue what he would say when they did. _That_ was the explanation he should _really_ have come up with, not some silliness about why his boyfriend so resembled the doll he'd once had on his desk. 

He threw a pensive glance of his own around the room, and in so doing happened to catch Catharine Barton's eye. She gave him a small but deliberate smile, in which Heero found a very unexpected sympathetic understanding. What she knew about the current situation, and how she knew it, he could not guess, but it was clear she was better-informed than the rest of sales. And given that she was one of the least gossipy people on the team, she probably wouldn't have demanded answers of him in any case, which he appreciated even in hypothesis. He found himself nodding slightly in thanks for her sympathy. Then he shook himself, turned back to his computer, and logged off for lunch. 

Since it was still a little early for this activity, nobody followed him and Duo off the floor when they left, but the volume of murmuring increased behind them with every step they took toward the hallway. Without being entirely sure why, Heero had a sudden, overwhelming feeling that he was guilty of something and escaping blame by leaving the sales floor. 

"He's started exaggerating now," Duo remarked as they made their way toward the breakroom. "You don't have a problem taking charge." 

"We were about to go on lunch." Heero knew he didn't have to defend himself to his boyfriend -- Duo was even speaking up for him, which Heero greatly appreciated -- but he couldn't help offering this explanation of his behavior. "I didn't see any problem with everyone wasting a couple of minutes to get it out of their system." The truth was that, even if Quatre had been exaggerating, Heero really wasn't terribly fond of being in charge of the entire sales team. For this reason he was Sales Coordinator rather than Sales Manager, dealing with people's work more than he dealt with people themselves. But it wasn't that he _couldn't_ take charge, or didn't when he needed to, just that he didn't like it. Or so he'd always believed. 

Duo recognized Heero's discomfort and, since the breakroom was entirely empty, did not scruple to say loudly, "Well, I think you're just fine." 

As he made his way toward the fridges, Heero smiled faintly. "Yes, but you're biased." 

"Quatre should be too," Duo grumbled. But he was reflecting unhappily on a certain bias-defying objectivity regarding work matters that he'd specifically recognized in Quatre even when Quatre _wasn't_ magically angry at everything. He was also pouting a bit because he'd been looking forward to sharing with Heero his thoughts on the training thus far and his happiness at being here, and now Quatre had spoiled that. 

Heero fully intended to indulge Duo in this desire -- indeed, he was passionately looking forward to Duo's opinion of the sexual harassment video in particular -- but there was one more point about Quatre he wanted to raise first. He glanced around to check once again that they were alone as he brought their lunches to the table Duo had chosen. In a low tone as he sat down he said, "Those sites that talked about destroying artifacts said the energy that gets released can damage things around you, including yourself. But if this energy Quatre's giving off is pure magic from the artifact, why isn't it affecting anything around him?" 

"Yeah, you're right. It's like he's processing it... converting it into a different form or something." Duo stared thoughtfully at the sandwich he was pulling from a Ziploc. He began turning it over and over, trying to decide which piece of bread he liked better on top. "What happens to shade energy when people get possessed by it? They release it with their emotions or whatever, but what does the actual energy do at that point?" 

Since their mutual lack of knowledge meant this was about as far as they could take this topic right now, and since he knew he was going to have to share Duo in about fifteen minutes when this room started to fill, Heero just shook his head. "That's something to look up later, I guess." 

Duo nodded. 

"Now," Heero added as he extracted his own sandwich from its plastic, "tell me what you've been doing all morning."


	169. La Confrérie de la Lune Révéré Part 12

Trowa had been casting spells on an axe all day, but, though slowly feeling his way back toward the level of divination skill he'd had before, he was almost ready to declare this particular endeavor a lost cause and a waste of time. Just like yesterday's examination of the broken pieces of the artifact. 

He'd been sure the tool would be able to tell him _something_ if he could just get the divinations to work, since the energy must have traveled up the haft from the artifact to get to Quatre. But whether his own limited divination abilities were, as they often had in the past, barring him from getting answers, or whether he was encountering interference produced by the protective spells he'd cast on the axe to keep any potential discharge of energy from harming Quatre on the artifact's destruction, or whether he was simply on the wrong track and there _were_ no answers to be found here, he didn't know. 

In the face of his total lack of success thus far, his thoughts kept returning to Heero's suggestion that this might be a necrovisual issue. The very fact that the energy involved was perceptible to the completely non-necrovisual Trowa and Duo seemed to contraindicate this avenue of research, but different branches of magic _could_ coincide to create complicated problems, and Quatre's symptoms _were_ very similar to those of red shade possession. 

Necrovisua was the branch of magic Trowa had least investigated over the years. As a matter of fact, having no skill in it himself and having been aware that the curse he'd laid on Duo did not partake of it, he'd almost completely ignored it. Never having encountered a situation in which he would need necrovisual magic, he hadn't even added anyone to his list of contacts whose primary talent lay in that area. If Quatre did turn out to have some kind of red shade that somehow resembled artifact energy, Trowa wasn't entirely sure what he would do about it. 

Well, actually, that was incredibly obvious: he would need to email his contacts to find out which of them had necrovisual skill, whether any of them had heard of a condition like this, and whom they would suggest to help remedy it. At least one of these questions, Trowa reflected, was something he should _already_ have emailed them about. He didn't really believe Heero's theory, didn't think this was a necrovisual problem... but it _was_ a theory, which was more than he had. Heero had relayed it on Sunday night. And now it was Tuesday afternoon. Trowa should have set inquiries in motion long before this. 

But he hadn't emailed anyone yet. In his inbox, full as it always was of requests for assistance and magical insight, there were even several messages to which he could easily respond with a casual return request for information on the one branch of magic he wasn't intimately familiar with. And someone had come to his door just yesterday. He hadn't answered, but it wasn't impossible that he could have initiated an inquiry if he had. Why was he so reluctant to contact anyone about this? 

Cowardice, probably. Quatre had pointed out with unpleasant accuracy that Trowa was afraid of losing the huge levels of power the artifact had provided him, and Trowa was sure that, now he'd actually suffered this loss, he was afraid to admit even to himself how far he'd fallen. Admitting it to anyone else must be just as bad. But was that all there was to it? 

He didn't enjoy being a celebrity. He didn't enjoy being bothered by fans and amateurs. He didn't enjoy the awareness that many people he'd never met knew his name and even where he lived. He was mentioned in books, looked up to as an authority almost ultimate, and often the first resort when people wanted complicated spells they couldn't cast for themselves... and he'd never enjoyed that. 

Or so he'd always believed. 

But this was all a result of his known history. The magical community, at least in the U.S. and sometimes beyond, knew he was immortal, knew he was extremely powerful... some of them even knew he'd long been researching curses and looking for a talking doll. That much of this had changed most of them did not know, and Trowa found himself oddly averse to the idea of telling them. 

He was no longer immortal or astonishingly powerful. The lengthy period of obsessive pursuit had ended. And though he was still an expert on at least the theory of three branches of magic, still he somehow didn't like the thought of admitting to a new problem he couldn't deal with in the fourth. That he, the authority almost ultimate, had encountered something beyond him and was now at the mercy of other magicians a fifth his age with less skill and knowledge than he'd already had sixty years ago. 

He'd believed himself almost entirely devoid of pride. Apparently he'd been wrong. It seemed he enjoyed his celebrity more than he'd been aware. And what kind of terrible person did it make him that he was allowing such feelings to keep him from seeking assistance in a matter where someone he loved was being hurt and hurting others? 

Probably, to be honest, no more terrible a person than he'd long considered himself. Which meant there really was no point standing around here dwelling on it. Grim-faced, he took the axe back to the shed and headed inside to the computer. 

It wasn't a lot of fun. Whether cowardice or pride was the cause, he found the process of asking for information as unpleasant as the prospect had been, and just to keep his fingers moving on the keyboard he had to hold tenaciously to the awareness of Quatre's condition. Had to remember phrases like, _"Nobody thinks I'd ever get tired of hanging onto all their secrets for them,"_ and _"What are you trying to do, turn me into a doll or something?"_

Quatre had come to Trowa's house, as he often did, after work yesterday, and spent a few hours ranting about the state of Winner Plastics and the breakdown of reason and order among the people there. He'd been trying not to take his anger out on Trowa, and had instead channeled it into this set of complaints about his co-workers; even Heero and Duo had not been exempt, but at least they also hadn't been present. 

Obviously Quatre had been aware of his mood. He'd apologized (for a certain definition of the term) multiple times for his grouchiness, but it was interesting that he hadn't made any more specific reference to his own state. Evidently he wasn't aware of the _full extent_ of his mood, how far it was affecting him. 

This seemed incredible, that effect being so readily apparent to anyone that knew Quatre, but there was such a thing as denial -- a thing Trowa didn't think Quatre generally given to... but if kindness, a predominant characteristic and integral part of the self, was being repressed or circumvented in a manner impossible to combat, even the most rational person might respond in the only way he could that would give him any feeling of control by subconsciously pretending it wasn't happening. 

Trowa hadn't wanted to make inquiries to confirm these ideas, and perhaps this was another instance of cowardice keeping him from something he needed to do. But his faith in the value of self-reporting in such a situation was not great enough to make him eager to risk what Quatre might say in response to questions about his mental state. Emails, therefore, were a good option -- possibly the best option, if Trowa wanted to admit that to himself. If anyone replied with any definitive answers, he would happily admit it; if not, he might continue to resent the necessity forever.


	170. La Confrérie de la Lune Révéré Part 13

He seemed to have a multi-level awareness of the situation. First, there was a general knowledge of events, not limited to what his senses told him. Second, he could detect Duo's thoughts and feelings more intensely than he'd yet done. Third, his own emotional state, primarily in response to Duo's, was sharp and prominent. And beneath that, a state apart from the emotional was much more blurry but still somewhat distracting: he thought that, physically, he was relatively relaxed and comfortable, if a little hot, but this lay distinctly in the background to the sharp panic and misery he absorbed from the atmosphere and from Duo. 

These layers of awareness were so chaotic that it took him an unpleasant while to adjust and actually process what he was picking up; so he didn't know, when things began to clarify, how they'd come to this point. 

Duo, a helpless doll, lay at the side of the road, barely able to move and feeling nothing. _Absolutely nothing_. He even lacked the background physical awareness that kept Heero grounded; reaching for it and not finding it, Heero felt his own panic increase. The complete absence of physical sensation behind Duo's mentation was a barrier so impenetrable, so blank and black, it was as if Duo wasn't even alive. Heero's despair at the idea seemed to blend with Duo's despair at the condition he was in. 

The poor doll waved his arms weakly against the gravel he should have been able to feel. Someone was nearing, and Duo struggled wildly, trying at least to sit up and completely, miserably failing. The approaching figure was a blend of Heero and a guy named Leon, who'd kept Duo for five months before giving him to Goodwill in 2008. Now this individual walked with purpose along the road without looking down, and Duo was trying harder than ever to get his attention. 

He flailed his arms and legs, but only managed somehow to flip himself over. The wave of anguish this occasioned choked his already quiet voice as he let out a muffled yell through the gravel. It was no use. The man couldn't hear him. Duo was sure, at the sound of crunching footsteps receding into silence, that his heart was breaking, and Heero ached along with him. 

What was definitely breaking was the gravelly ledge. It crumbled and collapsed; there was nothing to hold onto, and Duo's fingers wouldn't separate and his wrists wouldn't bend. No good; he couldn't stop his slide; he had no control over his downward movement; he was in the water. 

He was unnaturally heavy and not at all buoyant, as he always had been. The water through which he sank should have been wet, but he couldn't feel it; should have choked him, but he didn't breathe; should have chilled him, but he had no way of detecting the temperature. What it did was stifle him mentally, blind him and deafen him, steal the last of his senses so he had nothing left. Nothing but the lonely prospect of an eternity here at the bottom of the water in this sensationless prison with not one single remaining freedom. Not even that of death. 

Heero believed he was the one to awaken them this time, bucking so hard against Duo's misery and its causes that he actually jerked himself awake and, sitting up abruptly, roused Duo as well. Duo too, extremely disoriented, scrambled into a sitting position, and Heero's agitation did nothing to quell his panic. And as Heero gathered Duo into his clinging arms, Duo's breaths came quick and ragged. 

"You don't have to do that." Heero's voice was harsh, and his words didn't necessarily make any sense. "I won't let that happen." 

Duo clung in return, sliding closer, crushing the blanket between them. He had nothing coherent to say yet, but he wouldn't be Duo if he didn't express himself somehow. The noise he made was rich with emotion -- or perhaps that was just what Heero read from him: all the dread and hopelessness from the dream still throbbed inside Duo, but his consciousness of Heero's comforting presence grew and strengthened. 

"I didn't realize how bad it was." The mental simulation of sensory deprivation had been appalling, even with the consciousness of Heero's own senses in the background. It horrified him to think that Duo's memory of being unable to feel anything was strong enough to suppress his actual senses. 

"You were there?" 

"Yeah." Heero was running his hands all over Duo as he'd developed a habit of doing after these dreams, but this time, with the echo of Duo's wretchedness in his heart, his movements were much more intense. So intense, in fact, that it actually pulled Duo's thoughts forcibly away from where they'd been pinned and writhing. This was the purpose of the movement, of course, but Heero's desire to distract his boyfriend was deeper and more complex this time. 

"Hey... hey..." Having picked up on the fact that Heero had shared his dream, Duo was also realizing quickly why Heero was more agitated than usual -- and all of a sudden, bizarrely, it was _Duo_ offering the comfort. "My poor communicator... I'm sorry you had to see that..." 

"I'm sorry _you_ had to see that." 

"But at least I'm used to it." Duo was still very shaken, but concentrating on Heero's discomfort was helping him recover. "I had a really long time to get used to that kind of thing, but you've never felt that before, have you?" 

"Please tell me," Heero begged, easily as breathless as Duo, "you don't really want to die." He knew there was no _surface_ thought to this purpose in Duo's head, but the despondency of the nightmare had pierced deep... and suicidal thoughts _beneath_ the surface were more worrisome in any case. 

"No!" said Duo fiercely, squeezing Heero hard. "Dreams are a totally different-- I am _so_ happy-- you have _no idea_ how glad I am to be alive." 

Intense wordless relief tightened Heero's grip as well, and Duo snuggled against him in equal silence for a minute or so. 

Heero was actively trying not to listen to Duo's thoughts, but when he had nothing else to distract him, when his boyfriend's mental state was his biggest concern, this was borderline impossible. So he'd already seen it coming when Duo said with a reluctant sigh, "You're right about one thing... I definitely need some therapy. I already would really like this to stop, but if you're going to be seeing this stuff too, that's... we can't be having that." 

Heero wasn't sure what to say. Duo, he knew, had already come to the conclusion that he did need therapy simply for his own sake, but he was clearly sincere in his desire to spare Heero the unpleasant dreams, and this had prompted him to make the admission aloud. Though touched, Heero was still concerned. And it was evident that, though Duo _had_ said it aloud, he still didn't want to discuss it. Admitting he needed therapy was one step he'd had to work up to; he wasn't ready for the next step just yet. 

He expected Heero to say something, though -- something like, _"We'll have to talk to Trowa about that again,"_ or even something that amounted to, _"I told you so,"_ even though Heero would never have said such a thing and Duo knew it. And when Heero _didn't_ come up with anything to say, Duo was simultaneously relieved and amused. He went from uncomfortable thoughts about therapy to lighter ones about how it just figured that the uncommunicative Heero should turn out to be a magical communicator. Duo wasn't nearly as experienced with the magical community as some other hundred-year-old magicians might be, but in the experience he did have, communicators often turned out to be the people with the highest walls. 

It was remarkable how quickly fully-formed thoughts developed. Even in regard to his own reflections Heero had never considered this, but he was struck now with the rapidity of this complete thought of Duo's that probably contained even greater complexity than what he was capable of picking up at this point -- not to mention the instantaneous nature of Duo's follow-up that, if Heero had started hearing his thoughts, he might not appreciate this latest one. 

"I did hear that, but I don't mind." Heero ran a hand up Duo's face and into his hair as he spoke. "I know what I'm like." Duo wouldn't see much of his reassuring look, but he could probably hear it in his voice. 

"Yeah, but Quatre's been rude about it lately." The topic was definitely distracting Duo and helping the negative feelings of the nightmare to fade unusually quickly. As such, this was an even better moment for the conversation Heero had been planning and putting off since Sunday. 

"I'm going to need to talk to Trowa about steps I can take to control this, but I don't think there's anything I can do about it until this thing with Quatre is over." Heero looked at Duo earnestly as Duo nodded his understanding in the bedroom dimness. "Is it going to bother you that I'm hearing your thoughts?" 

Duo leaned forward and kissed him, reflecting as he did so that a boyfriend you could simultaneously communicate with _and_ kiss was a convenient thing to have. Of course this was not his only thought. He loved the increase in intimacy the presence of Heero in his head represented, but he didn't know for sure that he was ready for the lack of privacy, which in some ways smacked of his time as a doll. He was reminded of Heero's statement from Sunday: he didn't feel he had anything specifically to keep secret, but there were potential embarrassments he would no longer be able to hide... aspects of himself that might make Heero think the worse of him. Yet to have Heero know him more completely was, overall, very desirable. And in any case, there was absolutely nothing to be done about it, so he might as well make the best of it. 

Though not entirely pleased with this set of ideas, nor by the fact that Duo didn't seem able to articulate them, Heero had to be satisfied with this answer for the moment. He _was_ fairly pleased with the suggestion that arose from his own subconscious at about the same time: that perhaps his mental connection to Duo would allow him to affect or even repress Duo's nightmares. That was something else he would have to look into. 

It also occurred to him suddenly, somewhat irrelevantly, to wonder why he'd been able to sense whatever had happened to Quatre on Friday night when Quatre had been clear across the country. He obviously had a lot to learn about his blossoming abilities, but he felt it must probably be put off until after the current problem was solved. 

Raising a hand to clasp the one of Heero's that was still against his face, Duo pulled back at last into a position that put them eye-to-eye again, though there was still so little light in the room that expressions were difficult to make out. That didn't much matter, though; Heero could tell Duo wanted to speak but couldn't quite decide what to say. 

Then they both jumped as the alarm went off. In response to this mutual violent start, Duo began laughing, and flung himself forward into a hug that knocked Heero onto his back with a significant tangling of blanket between and around them. Though Heero's arm went out to try to stop the beeping from the nightstand, his blind flailing in that direction was continually ineffectual as Duo kissed him several times at various points across his head and neck. The wellspring of optimism Duo seemed perpetually able to tap had served its purpose as usual, and Duo was suddenly sanguine again. 

Heero couldn't help being affected by that hope. Perhaps something would have changed today. Four days had passed, after all, and, though nobody had come up with any answers yet, there was still the possibility that Quatre's anger would work itself out. Maybe when they got to the office they would find him in a significantly better mood. Then Trowa could stop worrying about that and turn his thoughts toward a therapist for Duo and some learning resources for Heero. 

The nightmare hadn't been a pleasant way to start the day, and should probably, Heero reflected as he finally managed to silence the alarm, at least taint if not completely ruin it. But with Duo around -- and this wasn't the first time Heero had noticed this remarkable condition -- he was able to be relatively optimistic even in the face of a negative circumstance concerning Duo himself. Things were going to be fine. Or at least, if not fine, things were going to be possible to live through. Heero was certain of that.


	171. La Confrérie de la Lune Révéré Part 14

After increasing his body temperature with jogging and a hot shower, Quatre preferred cold coffee, and after waking up with the same headache he'd taken to bed, he needed it more than ever. Normally Darryl made some in batches large enough for three or four days so Quatre didn't have to waste time getting it ready before work every morning, but this week, for whatever reason, he'd failed to do so. Now, on Wednesday, forced for the third day in a row to consider where he might stop for a drink that was bound to be oversugared and overpriced, Quatre was nearing the end of his patience with the negligence of his housekeeper. What exactly were they paying him for? As if Quatre hadn't already been in a bad enough mood. 

People in this city drove like idiots. Half of them didn't seem to care whether they ever got where they were going -- probably because they were none too eager to reach their meaningless jobs -- and the rest were clearly on some kind of hallucinogenic stimulant. How Quatre had not been killed by one of these lunatics during the near decade he'd been driving around here, he had no idea. And having to make a minor detour on his way to the office in search of the aforementioned inevitably disappointing coffee did not exactly improve matters. 

His co-workers were little better on the automotive navigation front. There was no reason for them to be anywhere near the manager spaces, but somehow it took an anomalously long time for Quatre to get parked and out of his car. He made a mental note to check people's timestamps to see who'd ended up late because they thought it would be hugely fun to circle the lot aimlessly a dozen times before coming inside. 

Over the last two days, he'd put off as many phone calls as he possibly could, and now they were all lined up in a neat list that could no longer wait. That his mood hadn't improved despite everything he'd done irritated him, and that it was now threatening to affect the quality of his work made him downright angry, but it was only fractionally his own fault. Why was it that the very week he was in an unusually bad temper happened to be the same damn week everyone around him decided to act like a frothing moron? He shouldn't even have to be making half these calls; somebody else should have handled them long before this, assuming they were capable of manipulating the phone and speaking basic English. What exactly were they paying _anyone_ around here for? 

This very question was what performance reviews sought to answer. Quatre was personally responsible for reviewing only the Pacific Division Site Directors, but was allowed to sit in on anyone's review within that division -- to some extent even expected to do so for those at a managerial level, at least at the two offices here in town -- and could certainly give suggestions beforehand. Coming up with such suggestions would be his reward for finishing these stupid phone calls. 

Why should Quatre be forced to remind the advertising department that marketing targeted at manufacturers needed to differ from marketing targeted at the general public? Didn't they have degrees that should have told them that? And why had this snarl that had arisen in payroll when they'd changed banks made it all the way up to Quatre's level? A few incisive conversations got it mostly sorted out, and these were conversations somebody else should have been having. Though at least he had something specific he could do during the time he spent on hold. 

Performance review suggestions were a mixed reward, however, and as such didn't really make up for the phone calls. He didn't _like_ writing so many unpleasant things in a row, but the staff was pushing him into it. And, yes, there was a certain satisfaction -- relief, even -- to venting some of his annoyance like this, but he hated the fact that people he cared about were forcing him to do things that would make them unhappy. 

Even his best friend! Quatre couldn't _believe_ how noisy the sales team had been the last few days under Heero's eye! He might have said Dorothy was the only member of sales that hadn't annoyed him this week, except that her poor vacation timing was what had brought this to light. Whether job performance failings were better openly causing problems and able to be addressed, or latent with the potential to manifest at even more inconvenient moments, he could not decide -- and that he could not decide annoyed him as well. 

And why couldn't he think of a singe damn criticism for Wufei Chang? Were they going to have to give that insufferable Neanderthal _another_ raise? 

Frustrated, Quatre pushed back from his desk. He had other things to do in any case, _and_ a headache, and right now he needed a bathroom. 

On the way, he passed the office of Don, the Site Director, who was talking to Joyce and looked up when Quatre passed the windows on either side of his closed door. Though it was only natural to glance out at whoever was walking by under such circumstances, that glance was also, from what Quatre could see, both a little too lengthy and broken off a little too abruptly. Quatre had long theorized that Don, dissatisfied answering to someone twenty years his junior, had his eye on Quatre's position, and this paranoid look seemed to confirm that theory. Perhaps _his_ performance review would turn out a little more confrontational than Quatre had expected. He almost looked forward to that. 

The department he had to walk through next was always as loud as the sales floor had been lately, but at least that was normal for HR. They had a tendency never to shut any of their doors except at great need, and to carry on shouted conversations up and down the hallway; it was extremely unprofessional and, at the moment, irritating as hell. So was the type of cheerful greeting Human Resources people were always inclined to give. Some of them even expected him to stop and chat -- on his way to the bathroom, for god's sake! Quatre really needed to have one installed adjacent to his own office so as to avoid this rigmarole. 

Things were much quieter as he returned, but he did catch the word 'complaints' more than once, undoubtedly in reference to him. It made sense that complaints were coming in, but anyone with a brain had only to look around to see the state of the company and that it made just as much sense for Quatre to be cracking down on the laxities around here. Admittedly he might not be doing this as kindly as he would have preferred, but it made equal sense that the stupidity he'd been encountering lately would perpetuate his bad mood. 

Three phone calls remained. They hadn't been grouped with the others, for various reasons, but he'd known they needed to be done. The fact that they hadn't been on the list had formed a decent excuse to put them off until after the performance reviews... and then the performance reviews hadn't been nearly as effective at improving his mood as he'd hoped, leaving him still in no proper state for phone calls. But they had to be made, and now was the time. 

He should have seen it coming, but things kept taking him by surprise this week... the remaining calls left him so annoyed that he couldn't see how he was going to compile the report he was supposed to spend the rest of the morning working on. Once again, though, now was the time. This was going straight to his father, and he couldn't put it off. 

His frustration was so great, however, that concentrating on this work was an effort nearly beyond him. He almost wished he hadn't already collected all the information he needed, so that now he could just send off some authoritative emails and sit back and wait. And he couldn't take any more Tylenol yet; he'd already significantly exceeded the recommended dose. Not that it was doing much good. 

But he could control this. A bad mood, even one this long-lasting, even one accompanied by a headache of this magnitude, was not enough to cow Quatre or keep him from doing his job. It didn't matter that the inhibition brought about by his frustration was frustrating him even more, almost to the point of tears; he _could_ beat this. He was very good at remaining steadfast in his work, and he hadn't developed that skill to no purpose. Even if it took him a little longer than it should, even if his language in the report was a bit curt, even if he was completely miserable by the time it was done. 

At least he could go see Trowa later. That might not help at all, but looking forward to it was something. He'd been annoying Trowa over the last few days, and probably _shouldn't_ go see him until he was over this, but he could wrestle with that moral dilemma at 5:00. In any case, Trowa needed to be annoyed sometimes. Trowa was too passive about things; it was aggravating. If Quatre rubbed him the wrong way a bit, perhaps he could be irritated into taking initiative about something -- _anything_ \-- instead of merely reacting, endlessly reacting, to the people around him. 

Of course, initiative at this point might serve only to call Quatre on his bad behavior. This thought brought Quatre even closer to tears than any previous, and tears would _not_ make his head feel better, so he pushed it almost violently away. He would think about Trowa later. That could be another dubious reward. Right now he had work to do.


	172. La Confrérie de la Lune Révéré Part 15

  


Duo was frankly proud of his lunch today, since with his own hands he had mixed the mayonnaise stuff into the tuna and, his very self, put that tuna-and-mayonnaise-stuff on the bread. Of course Heero had closed the sandwich and bagged it up, but what a productive member of the household Duo was becoming! 

A few minutes must be spent admiring his handiwork before he could bite into it, and this delay was useful in that it gave Heero time to catch up. Latasia continued to release her trainee for lunch at around 12:45, and Heero couldn't always get away from the sales floor before 1:00, especially after Quatre had harassed him yesterday about leaving early. 

Heero had mentioned sadly that he used to eat lunch _with_ Quatre when the latter was at leisure to do so. There was more than one reason to look forward to Dorothy's return. 

Now Heero joined Duo at the table, and the smile he gave him was wan at first. It warmed, however, as he looked at the sandwich in Duo's hands. This reminded Duo, as several things had since yesterday morning, that Heero could read his thoughts. His feelings about that were still mixed, but he did try to suppress any active discomfort when Heero was around. Eventually he would be used to it -- he was good at getting used to things, and had assimilated circumstances that offered far less consolation than his boyfriend having a window into his head -- and until then, there was no reason to make Heero feel bad thinking Duo was intensely or completely unhappy about it. 

Partly because he didn't want to talk about that at the moment, partly because he really did have a comment to make about the other subject that had already been more or less brought up, Duo spoke right through his first bite of lunch. "I think someday I might not like tuna sandwiches." 

"But right now they're OK?" Heero wondered, grinning. It was, Duo reflected, very considerate of him to ask this aloud even though he'd probably already caught Duo's full meaning from his thoughts. 

"Right now _everything's_ OK still. It may take a while for that to wear off." 

"Let me know when it does, and then we can start testing to see what you actually like." 

"Actually," Duo suggested pensively, "I should probably eat all the things people think are totally gross, because now's the only time I'll like them." 

"Like escargot and tripe?" Heero was still grinning. "We'll have to find some place that sells stuff like that." 

On the subject of Heero spending money on him, Duo's conscience bothered him a lot less these days, especially since he now had a job of his own. Some uncertainty, though, had arisen in relation to that very job, and as it was recalled to his mind by this turn of the conversation, Heero's expression went from amused to concerned. This time he didn't wait for Duo to speak before responding to what he'd picked up on: "You're worrying about job security already?" 

"I know it's stupid..." As Duo took a drink of his Coke, his fleeting consideration that the modern cheapness and accessibility of carbonation was a sign of mankind's progress toward sublimity brought the smile reluctantly back to Heero's face, and this derailed everything briefly. "Did that block out the other stuff?" Duo tapped the top of his soda can curiously. "Or do you get it all at once in a big jumble?" 

"It's just what's on top," Heero replied. "I haven't tried to get at anything deeper." 

When Duo reflected that, all potential discomfort aside, there was something vaguely sexual about the way Heero had phrased that, Heero cleared his throat, glanced around at the room that would only be this empty for about two more minutes, and lowered his voice. "So, yes, you thinking about carbonated soda did block out you worrying about your job." 

"Well, then, if I ever want some privacy, I know what to do -- just think about food or something." Duo instantly regretted saying this when Heero frowned, and then he regretted regretting it since he knew Heero would know. This communication magic business really did complicate things -- which was the reason he'd specifically avoided talking about it a minute ago and probably shouldn't have brought it up just now. Quickly he said, "It's totally fine. Just something we'll get used to." 

Heero nodded with a faint sigh and deliberately returned to their previous topic. "So you're worried about the job..." 

Duo shrugged. "People are making me a little nervous, but that's probably something else I just have to get used to." 

"Doing what?" 

"They're all really nice and friendly -- I don't want to say I think anyone's _deliberately_ trying to make me uncomfortable -- but the way everyone talks to me makes me feel like they don't expect me to last very long here." 

"You have the perfect personality for sales. You're going to be a natural at this, and I'm sure everybody here can see that." 

"Yeah, but I haven't been to college like the rest of you human people. Someone could come along any time who's better qualified for this than me." 

"You're a human person too, Duo." Heero lowered his voice even farther as two chatting employees entered the room. Duo thought they were from HR, but freedom from the sales team couldn't last too much longer. "And, like I said, you're _very_ qualified for this job, better than a lot of people who _do_ have degrees." Heero's face was set in an expression of determination that appeared almost unhappy, and he didn't let Duo make the protest he'd been planning against the encouraging words. "Besides, how many people here actually know you haven't been to college?" 

It was a good point, but it didn't change the attitude Duo decidedly felt he'd been picking up from his new co-workers: that of saying goodbye with every conversation, getting to know him quickly while they had the chance. 

"That's strange," Heero murmured. "I wonder what everyone's problem is." He shook his head and went on with unexpected intenseness. "But _don't worry_. You're exactly the kind of person we hire who always does the best job. Who cares what anyone else thinks?" 

Duo half smiled. "I definitely care what you think more than what they think... but why are you so, um, passionate about this? I mean, thanks for being so reassuring, but..." 

"I just don't like to see you so worried," Heero admitted. "You're usually so confident." 

"Well..." Duo leaned forward as the noisy flood of salespeople they'd been expecting now began pouring into the room, but eventually decided not even to make the statement aloud: that this was more than just any old job to him. It was his chance to prove -- to himself as much as to the world -- that he really _was_ a human person, and someone that nobody needed to carry around anymore. This employment opportunity meant more to him than it probably did to anyone else here, and if he screwed it up-- 

"You won't," Heero insisted, almost harshly. 

"But there are these stupid little tests at the end of the training modules," Duo complained, feeling more comfortable about the possibility of being overheard with this more frivolous branch of the subject. "I'm terrible at them! I suck at tests!" 

His demeanor abruptly lightening, Heero actually chuckled a little. "I don't think anyone ever actually looks at your results from those. They're just there as proof that you went through the module." 

"Yeah, but..." Duo shrugged again and somewhat reluctantly brought up the last point he was worried about. "Quatre..." 

Heero went right back to his previous moroseness. "Quatre," he repeated with a sigh, and it was obvious he had no specific reassurance to offer in response to the idea that Quatre's current state _might_ make Duo's position here more precarious. His expression hardened, though, as he said in a quiet, granite tone, "We won't let him ruin this for you." 

Though he'd said 'we,' there was a strong implication of 'I.' In fact, there was about the statement a feeling of 'I'll go up against my best friend for your sake' that made Duo sit up straight in surprise. He didn't for an instant want to see any conflict between Quatre and Heero, and he fervently hoped it wouldn't come to that -- but the willingness Heero thus displayed to take Duo's part, if necessary, even against someone as important to him as Quatre, was deeply touching. 

A vague idea of one way Duo could express his appreciation for this sign of love floated through his head, and, trying not to grin wickedly all of a sudden, he dragged the thought to the forefront of his mind and enhanced the hell out of it just to make sure Heero would see it. He had a pretty decent sensory imagination, if he did say so himself; it came from valuing sensation so much. 

He could tell he'd succeeded when Heero's eyes widened as he too sat up straight in surprise and his face went slightly pink. Evidently he couldn't think what to say in response. Communication magic might complicate things, but it could potentially be a lot of fun, too. 

"I just hope there aren't any other communicators in this room," Heero eventually managed in a somewhat choked voice. 

Duo laughed and glanced around. "I don't see anyone leering," he reassured. "Besides, it's not like this is the first time I've thought stuff like that about you in public." 

The pink deepening to red, "Speaking of things I just have to get used to," Heero muttered.


	173. La Confrérie de la Lune Révéré Part 16

  


Before things had changed last Friday night, it used to be that whenever Quatre joined Heero in the breakroom for lunch, they were courteously left alone most of the time. This week, however, with Quatre absent and everyone wanting to chat with newcomer Duo, co-workers had more or less swarmed every day. Since getting to know Duo was secondary to gossiping about Quatre a good half of the time, this made lunch pretty unpleasant for Heero, and he'd decided that, as soon as Dorothy was back and it was no longer as important for him to be consistently accessible, he would suggest to Duo that they start eating elsewhere. What Duo would say to that he wasn't sure, but he was certainly going to make the proposal. 

When Duo had looked around just now, though his purpose had been mainly to tease Heero about his embarrassment regarding sexually explicit communications in such a public setting, he'd caught the attention of more than one member of the sales team, and now it appeared they were going to be mobbed as usual. Heero stifled a sigh. 

He was relatively pleased the next moment, however, to see that the first person to approach their table was Catharine. The lunch habits of most of his co-workers were not familiar to Heero, and he didn't know whether or not she was usually in here, but this was the first time she in particular had ever walked up and asked if the seat beside him was taken. And today he was happy to welcome her to sit down with them, since he believed she would make a perfect subject for a little experiment he wanted to run. 

Duo's surface thoughts came to him like sounds from a speaker: they faded predictably at distance, but otherwise all control over their volume, if there was any, lay on Duo's side, not Heero's. Yet there must be a way for Heero to reach out and get more than what passively came to him. Trowa could possibly tell him how, but Trowa wasn't present... so, because Duo was distinctly concerned about the sales team's attitudes, Heero was going to try reading some of that. 

As yet nothing came to him, even passively, from anyone besides Duo, but he knew it would happen eventually. To attempt speeding the process seemed worth a try in order to get at any answer that might comfort his boyfriend. And unless she'd been hiding her true nature very successfully as long as Heero had known her, Catharine's head seemed like a friendly place to start. 

Well, the actual start was with Duo's thoughts. Striking out on his own as he was here, Heero had to come up with a technique he guessed would work, and his guess was to concentrate on Duo's thoughts and then attempt to transfer that focus to Catharine. Of course what Duo was thinking didn't leave Heero's awareness at that point... it was like listening for something specific when someone was talking in his other ear, though a comparison to hearing was problematic when his ears were simultaneously picking up _real_ sounds on a physical level. 

In any case, it didn't work. He heard the conversation Catharine had struck up about how Duo liked the training so far, he heard the noise throughout the rest of the room -- including a few more co-workers drawing out the chairs at this very table and sitting down -- and on another level he 'heard' what Duo thought about all of this... but from Catharine, nothing. 

Of course he had no idea whether the fault lay in his method or his implementation of it, but he wasn't going to give up on that method after only a single attempt. Duo, having set aside the concerns he'd mentioned prior to everyone's entrance, was discussing his experience here so far with enough enthusiasm that Heero was not required to join, especially if the newcomers to the table did so in his place; he could experiment in peace. 

This process, regardless of its level of success, interested and engrossed Heero enough that, each time he focused in on Duo's thoughts, he found he had not been recognizing them clearly until he did so. Such a realization was encouraging, since it meant he'd already grown accustomed to picking up Duo's brainwaves continually, to the point where he was able to concentrate on other things without being significantly distracted. If he could become acclimatized to that in less than a week, surely he could take the next step in this magic. 

The table grew quite noisy as Duo began to imitate the acting in some of the training videos and nearly everyone else roared with laughter. Heero actually wished he could pay attention at this point, but didn't feel like giving up on his efforts to find the answer to Duo's concerns. 

And suddenly, like abruptly punching through a solid surface, it worked. Heero wasn't sure what he'd been expecting, but this was not it. 

Thoughts, thoughts, thoughts, more thoughts, and yet more thoughts came crashing in on him from every side, as if everyone in the room had abruptly started chattering at once. Again the comparison to hearing was insufficient, since most of the room was chattering already, but the sudden chaos left Heero in no state to come up with a better description. 

Well, 'broken dam' might be a good one. Catharine's thoughts that he'd been seeking were undoubtedly in there somewhere, but the babble of mental voices was, for the moment, impossible to sort out. The flood that now washed over him probably consisted mostly of everyday thoughts and nothing that should be at all agitating -- but even mundanity, Heero was abruptly learning, could be very overwhelming in such a large and sudden dose. 

This had been a bad idea at work. Heero should have foreseen that. He couldn't backtrack, he didn't know how to turn it down or push it aside, and he couldn't make sense of it. The mental feeling of the presence of his co-workers, of everyone in the room, had heightened, especially those in his immediate vicinity, but he couldn't pick out the thread of any individual's reflections. 

Hoping nobody tried to talk to him for a while, he attempted to relax and just let it all flow around him. He needed to get used to this. He needed, in fact, to get used to this before lunch was over. How had he managed to assimilate Duo's thoughts over the past few days? Surely he could repeat that process. But that had been a single set of reflections, not this madness. There must be something he could hold onto, though, some stable ground from which he could make an effort at organizing his perceptions. 

Physical sensation. It was there, under everything else, just as it had been in Duo's dream yesterday morning: the feeling of the chair beneath him, the table at his elbow, the air around him. He clung to it almost desperately as his only rescue from drowning. Why had his metaphors gone from aural to liquid all of a sudden? He tried to concentrate on what his body rather than his mind could tell him. 

In this way he eventually realized that he was still holding a half-eaten sandwich, which was soft and somewhat moist against his fingers (and, he believed, drooping). He even saw it, to some extent, though what his eyes reported was bizarrely low on the interpretation priority list at the moment. Hopefully nothing was dripping out of the sandwich onto the table, because he didn't think he could manage to put it down at this point. 

The chairs in here weren't terribly comfortable, for which he had never been more grateful (or... grateful at all, really). Normally he had to shift his weight every couple of minutes, but at the moment he wasn't sure how long it had been since he'd moved. This meant there was some specific discomfort where his ischium pressed against the deceptively solid seat, which made it easier to concentrate on this particular physical sensation and thereby develop a stronger feeling of attachment to his surroundings. This didn't exactly lead to mental clarity just yet, but his level of hope slowly increased. 

Certain concepts were starting to flash more comprehensibly through his head. It was still all a jumble, but at least some parts of that jumble were recognizable as they passed: dinner tonight, that last phone call, weekend drinking, Quatre, nail polish, change for a five, casserole, so tired, wanting a raise, that movie from yesterday, a sick relative, this afternoon's tasks, a microwave lunch... 

Yes, he could do this. The ideas passed too quickly for him to focus on any single one of them yet, but eventually he must be able to pick out what he wanted and ignore the rest. Plenty of people had this same magical talent, and _they_ didn't all go crazy or walk around in a daze completely unable to concentrate, did they? He could do this. If he could just find something that would allow him to organize his perceptions somewhat... he could deal with loads of information as long as it was categorized properly... 

Voices, of course. Well, they weren't voices at all, actually, but he'd given up trying not to compare this to other things it wasn't really like. Just as everyone had a distinctive sound when they spoke, they each had a distinctive psychic feeling when they thought -- so every thought had the specific feeling of the person from whom it came. If he put each 'voice' at the head of a column and paid attention to the 'sound' of each thought as it flitted by, he should eventually be able to start dividing them up. 

After that it must be only a matter of time before he could assign names to the voices, know whose thoughts he was reading, and hopefully be able to tune out the columns he didn't need. Eventually he could even cross-index with rows arranged by level of interest and importance, but one thing at a time. Just to make sense of this and get a grip on the world again would be enough at the moment. 

Everything she had to do when she got home, and whether or not she was going to have enough time before she had to leave again. The training modules, and the thinker's imperfect memories thereof that nevertheless matched what Duo was describing. The fact that this casserole was dried out in places, and probably shouldn't have been kept quite this long. Wondering how old the training videos were and when the company would next update them -- that was the same person that had previously been thinking about the modules! How nice it was to be here, human, among all these friendly co-workers, even if they had weird ideas about him -- Duo, of course. Undoubtedly he could make something for dinner that would have enough excess to provide him with lunches for a few days -- this was the casserole-eater again. 

Heero was gripped with an excitement resembling electricity in that it simultaneously galvanized him and kept him frozen exactly in place. His efforts were working! He really could do this! It was like a puzzle game -- something where you had to find, through pattern recognition and some trial and error, the one and only way the pieces could be arranged so they all fit -- and surprisingly fun, actually. 

Someone was thinking about how vibrant Duo was, how that must be a relief for Heero to have around to distract him from this weirdness with Quatre. 

A second someone was thinking about Quatre too, and how he'd apparently induced tears in an intern in advertising. 

Duo was congratulating himself on how funny his own last remark had been. 

A third someone was thinking about how the night classes she'd just started were proving unexpectedly time-consuming and stressful. 

Someone else was thinking about his casserole still, and how the recipe really was a good one. 

The first someone was thinking about how annoying it was that everyone wanted to gossip about Quatre when it clearly disturbed Quatre's friends. 

The second someone was wondering whether Quatre's father had heard about the ruckus his son was causing, and what he thought of it if he had. 

Duo was startled to note that Heero looked _extremely_ distracted and probably hadn't at all noticed the funny thing he'd just said. 

The third someone was thinking that if this level of homework kept up, she was never going to get any sleep again, and would probably drop dead in her tracks pretty soon. 

Someone else was thinking about his new puppy, and the various things he hoped it wasn't chewing and/or defecating on this very moment. 

The first someone was thinking that, as long as it didn't interfere with work, she, too, would do her best to contribute to any pleasant atmosphere of distraction that would make the day better for Heero and Duo so they wouldn't have to worry about Quatre so much. 

The second someone was thinking that if Quatre got himself fired or transferred or something, Don was going to jump right on that opening. 

Duo was thinking that, while it was perfectly normal for Heero to withdraw from conversation when so many people were involved, still he was usually _listening_, not... not sitting there completely motionless staring off into space like an open-eyed sleeper. He was even holding the remaining third of his sandwich in the air as if about to take a bite, but Duo didn't remember the last time he'd seen him move. Was he OK? What was going on? Concern quickly escalated. Something had to be done.


	174. La Confrérie de la Lune Révéré Part 17

  


Heero didn't resist when Duo guided his hands to put down his sandwich and his body to stand and head away from the table full of now-somewhat-worried co-workers. In fact he barely responded at all. He moved as if sleepwalking, as if completely unaware of what was going on around him; it was like -- Duo felt an uncomfortable shiver up his spine as the comparison crossed his mind -- it was like controlling a life-sized doll. 

That thought, at least, seemed to get Heero's attention, for he shook his head abruptly and reeled a little as he stepped out of the breakroom. "No," he whispered. "No, I'm sorry. I'm not..." But he was apparently too deep in thought even to complete his sentence. 

In the empty hallway, Duo took him by both shoulders and searched for some trace of _here and now_ in his eyes. "OK, Heero, I'm about ready to start freaking out." 

Again Heero shook his head, and again the motion was jerky, like that of someone trying to keep himself awake. "It's... quieter out here," he replied in a tone similar to Duo's mutter. 

"Yes," Duo agreed interrogatively. 

"Don't freak out. I'm OK. I'm just... hearing everyone's... thoughts." 

"Oh!" Duo let out a brief, breathless laugh of relief. "Oh, that's way better than what I was thinking." Well, technically, he hadn't had any idea what might be wrong, but this was still way better. Even so... "Are you really OK? Do you need to go home?" 

"Yeah, I'm... actually... fine..." For a third time Heero shook his head, but obviously the physical motion did no good diminishing the mental engrossment; his voice was still extremely distant. "This is..." He gave Duo a smile that looked almost more baffled than anything else. "This is kinda... _fun_..." 

"Is it?" Once more Duo laughed. "I mean, I guess I could see that, but it sounds like more of a huge pain in the butt to me." 

"Why is it... quieter..." Heero whispered. It sounded like he was talking to himself. 

Duo took a stab at both the full meaning of Heero's unfinished question and the answer to it. "How you think of things makes a big difference in magic. If you see the wall as a wall, it's going to act like a wall even if it doesn't technically have to. You'll probably have to specifically try if you want to hear people through walls." 

Heero stared at him -- though it felt more like he was staring _through_ him -- and seemed to take a very long time to process the information. And he couldn't be blamed for that, since he was probably processing a _lot_ of information in there at the moment. By himself in there but never alone again, trying to deal with a crowd he couldn't escape. 

And all of a sudden Duo was unhappy about this, to a degree he would not have expected. Heero had helped him out of a magical dilemma, and now here Duo was completely unable to return that help when Heero needed support. Not only that, but the curse-breaking month had established a standard of closeness between them that, even if they no longer kept within five feet of each other twenty-four hours a day, had diminished very little during the subsequent months -- and yet here was something they could not share, no matter how physically close they were. Heero was shouldering a burden Duo could not assist him in carrying, and simultaneously enjoying some kind of entertainment in which Duo could not partake. 

Heero took a deep breath. "It's like... hearing..." With a slight grimace he amended that statement. "No, it's not. I keep thinking it is... and then telling myself it's not... but I guess that's... the best way to describe it. Like hearing everyone talking at once from everywhere." His sentences grew more coherent as he concentrated on delivering them. "And since they're all talking out loud at the same time, they're all saying two things at the same time. But the thoughts are a lot quicker than what they say out loud. It was extremely overwhelming at first, but it's a little better out here. I was starting to make some sense of things in there, but I think it's easier out here. It'll make it easier to deal with everyone at once again afterwhile." 

With a jolt Duo realized what Heero was doing: he had recognized Duo's feelings about this situation, and he was trying to share. He was trying to describe what this was like for him so Duo would be able to understand and perhaps offer the support he longed to give. Right in the middle of whatever staggeringly disruptive chaos he was dealing with in his poor head without any prior training, Heero was thinking of Duo and trying to keep him happy. If Duo let him, he would undoubtedly get around to explaining what was fun about this process as well, so Duo could share that too. 

Duo flung his arms around Heero and squeezed, knocking him backward into the wall and, as it was more convenient, keeping him there. "I still don't know what I did to deserve you," he declared. "Don't even worry about me. Don't worry about anything but whatever you have to do to figure out how to deal with this, OK? I'm absolutely fine. I'm better than fine. You are the nicest guy in the world." He meant it, too. Perhaps he couldn't help the feelings that had flared up a moment ago, and perhaps they hadn't entirely died down, but they were overshadowed by his refreshed awareness of what a wonderful person Heero was. 

Though he still looked mightily distracted, Heero also appeared somewhat relieved. He smiled faintly and, to Duo's great surprise, brought that faint smile up for a brief kiss. Naturally that _would_ be the moment when someone exited the breakroom and hastened past them with a smothered giggle, forcing Heero to withdraw with a pink face at whatever that someone had been thinking about them... but still it had been a very pleasant moment. 

"Can you stay out here with me?" Heero asked. "I'm so distracted." 

"No kidding," Duo grinned. He didn't know whether Heero had made the request because he really felt the need of Duo's presence or because he was inventing a way for Duo to assist, and he didn't care. "Of course I'll stay here and guard you. Just let me know if there's anything else I can do." And, releasing his boyfriend somewhat reluctantly, he shifted into a position that would embarrass Heero less when people walked by -- still near, but not in quite so blatantly unprofessional an attitude. 

Eventually only a few minutes remained to them for lunch, and most of those minutes must be spent cleaning up what they'd left behind in the breakroom and providing the co-workers there an explanation of some sort for why they'd departed so abruptly and why Heero was undoubtedly going to seem so distracted for the rest of the day. Assuming Heero was up to the rest of the day. 

When Duo's thoughts wandered in this direction, Heero murmured, "I should be fine. Tell them..." He made a helpless noise. "I don't know." 

"You never have been any good at coming up with excuses around here. I'll think of something. If you're _sure_ you're OK, that is." Even teasing couldn't quite keep the anxiety from Duo's voice or from his thoughts. "If you want to leave, I can drive..." 

Heero shook his head. "Thanks. I really am OK." 

"Can you get back to your desk?" 

Now Heero smiled at him. "I think I can, but I wouldn't say no to you walking me there." 

Once this had been accomplished and Duo had wrenched himself from the distracted Heero's side, he pondered hard and fast to come up with something to tell the sales team. He felt he rose to the occasion admirably with the story that, just before everyone else had entered the breakroom, Heero had received a call with some family news, not necessarily bad but very surprising, that had so engrossed him he was likely to take a while to recover. Then Duo headed back to his training, which he knew would probably be extremely difficult to concentrate on for the rest of the afternoon. 

This prediction was borne out in the painfully slow approach of 5:00, but eventually Duo found himself, somehow not having exploded from impatience, free to go home for the evening. He practically ran down the hall to the sales floor, and essentially barged his way through the exiting crowd to find Heero. 

The latter seemed, even at just a glance, to be coping better than he had when Duo left him earlier, and Duo breathed a sigh of relief in response to the much greater awareness of surroundings evident in the smile Heero offered. Given that Heero was standing and had already logged off his computer, he must be ready to go, but Duo waited for the greater portion of the sales team to vacate the floor before he thought about actually leaving. Heero still looked distracted, so Duo first helped him into the jacket he'd draped over his chair, then seized Heero's briefcase in one hand and arm in the other. Then he guided him out of the room and, assuming the elevators would be the busier of the two options, toward the stairs. 

In the parking lot, Heero remarked, "It's much better out here... but can you drive?" 

"Yep." Duo could also open the passenger side door for Heero and close it behind him. He didn't know yet what Heero found entertaining about the communication magic process, but for himself, he had to admit, the novelty of escorting Heero around like this -- offering an arm, carrying his things, opening doors, rather like the old-school gentleman Duo could conceivably have become had things been different last century -- was kinda fun. He might have to try it again sometime. 

Heero's silence continued for a few minutes as they headed for home, and then, finally, he sighed softly. 

"All quiet now?" Duo wondered. 

Heero allowed, "Quiet enough. It'll probably never be 'all quiet' again, but..." He shrugged. "At least now I think I can manage telling you what I found out today." 

"Oh, yeah?" 

"That feeling you've been getting from half of sales -- that they don't think you're going to last long? -- it's because they all think Quatre and I just had a messy breakup and then I brought my new boyfriend to work right under his nose." 

"What?" More intensely Duo repeated, "_What?_ Are you serious? Do they seriously think that?" 

"A lot of them, yeah." 

"But..." Duo had no idea what to say. How could people that _knew_ Heero believe he would be such a jerk? Sure, it would explain Quatre's behavior pretty well, and actually it was... kinda funny... maybe actually _really_ funny... and a bit of a relief, since if _that_ was what everyone was worried about in relation to Duo's job security, it meant he had a lot less to worry about himself... but Heero would never...! Heero wasn't...! OK, well, Heero wasn't very open about his true self with most of sales... but still! His kindness wasn't buried _that_ deep! 

In fact... 

"Heero..." 

The clearing of throat from the passenger seat was all Duo needed; he didn't even have to voice his question out loud. 

"Heero!" Duo made a noise equal parts adoring and remonstrative, and pulled abruptly onto the shoulder and parked the car. He turned to his boyfriend with a face that probably didn't express his baffled mixture of gratitude and indignance nearly as well as his thoughts would. "You did it on purpose, didn't you? You let everybody into your head and gave yourself a huge problem for half the day and for who knows how long _just_ so you could figure out what everyone was thinking about me, didn't you? You did this for _me_, didn't you?!" 

"If I'd known what it would be like, I might not have," Heero pled. Which meant he still might have. 

Reaching out and seizing Heero's tie, Duo yanked him mercilessly across the space between the two seats and into a crushing, seatbelt-straining kiss. He didn't have words for how he felt right now, and he wasn't sure it was even terribly clear in his thoughts, but when he eventually released his lover he did make some attempt: "You just wait 'til I get you home, Heero Yuy." 

He remembered making a similar 'threat' right after Heero had first said he loved him. A sort of repetition of that was perfectly appropriate now, he believed, since, though entirely different on the surface, underneath the circumstances were practically identical.


	175. La Confrérie de la Lune Révéré Part 18

  


Not for the first time, Trowa had a distinct feeling of deja vu as what he did today in pursuit of answers about Quatre's condition echoed poignantly what he'd done decades ago in pursuit of answers about Duo's. The room's furnishings had mostly changed, as had the room itself -- in fact it was a different house in a different state -- but the books were the same, and thus far had provided the same amount of useful information as they had the last time he'd read them. 

Seifert was about as close to a friend as anyone during the long years had become -- which wasn't to say Trowa would have referred to him as anything more than 'an associate,' but he had, at least, informed Seifert when the curse had broken, and received cordial congratulations in return. Thus the perusal of Seifert's collection of books and documents concerning magic was the least uncomfortable of all Trowa's available options. He would move on to the more uncomfortable if he had to, but he was starting where he could work his way up. 

Though he'd maintained a sparse but unbroken correspondence with first Seifert's father and then Seifert himself -- letters succeeded eventually by emails, almost exclusively about magic -- it had been sixty years since he'd actually visited and read the texts. The first instance had been at the offer of Seifert senior, he having just fled Germany with his wife and young son and thinking that, in the post-war atmosphere, having an ally like Trowa might be extremely useful. This second instance was Trowa's request, to which Seifert junior had been happy to accede. 

That the experience was so distinctly different did not lessen the deja vu. He approached the information presented in a completely different way -- because he knew so much more these days and had a greater context to fit it into; because the problem he was trying to solve was so different from the previous, and might even have to do with a practically alien (to Trowa) branch of magic; because he also saw it now from the perspective of someone looking to write a comprehensive guide to magic, even if that was really the last thing he should be thinking about at the moment -- but it was the same information he'd searched for answers so long ago. His frame of mind was not identical to what it had been then, but there were still a number of negative emotions and a driving need to find the truth and the potential solution. And it remained just as frustrating that half of this stuff was in German. 

Though in his present frame of mind it could not engross, what he was able to read could certainly interest. Despite the worrisome nature of the situation with Quatre, and somewhat to Trowa's chagrin, that proposed book of his hovered frequently right at the edge of his consciousness, and he often found himself considering how to word certain concepts he encountered for an audience less thoroughly familiar with them. Some shame did arise as he considered that his scholar's brain seemed to find this equal in import to the Quatre issue, but as it didn't prevent him in any way from continuing to seek answers, he didn't waste much effort trying to break out of that frame of mind. 

Seifert's ancestors had mostly been diviners, though the talent had been watered down over the generations to the point where Seifert himself was even less skilled in that branch of magic than Trowa was. Hazy memories of records primarily on the subject of divination were borne out now in Seifert's collection, but the fact that the Trowa of 1947, looking for information that might be pertinent to a command-based curse, would probably have ignored any necrovisual references or any description of symptoms that had no bearing on Duo's condition gave him hope that there might still be something here he could use. But this was his second day in Seifert's compact little study, and he was reaching the end of the material for which he didn't require Seifert's services as translator, and he'd yet to find anything even remotely related to what he was looking for. 

At home, things were equally uncertain. He'd known perfectly well that, given the type of people he interacted with and the types of questions he'd been asking, he shouldn't expect a load of quick replies to the emails he'd sent a few days ago... but he'd been expectant nonetheless, and therefore had been bitterly disappointed at the lack of results. Well, that was a misnomer; he'd actually received fairly prompt responses from some of his contacts saying that they would look into it for him, and for this he should be grateful. But nobody had provided him with any actual information yet, and from the person in whose knowledge and necrovisual experience he had the most faith he'd heard nothing at all. Which meant his own research and experimentation must continue. 

Some of this divination information in Seifert's collection might prove useful in the long run, since it approached a branch of magic at which he wasn't very skilled from an interesting perspective. The long run concerned him very little right now, but he did feel that it might be a good idea to pay Seifert another visit at a later date when he was less agitated and better able to take notes on some of this for his own project. It might be worthwhile, actually, to volunteer to type all of this up for Seifert -- all of it that Trowa could read on his own, that is -- since Seifert had never gotten around to that task in all these years but would undoubtedly appreciate its being done. At the moment, Trowa employed a method of reading not much better than skimming -- paying just enough attention to the old print and handwriting to be sure he wouldn't miss anything that might be relevant, but not properly absorbing what he read when it wasn't. 

He heard the door open behind him, and, dragging his eyes from the sheaf of papers on the desk, looked around to see a little boy hanging from the handle and peering curiously at him. 

"Opa wants to know do you need him yet," the child announced when Trowa met his gaze. 

Trowa was reminded not so much of Seifert, much as this grandson resembled him, as of a niece of Quatre's he'd recently been introduced to: there was a similar air of seemingly contradictory blended hesitance and confidence. The niece, Emma, had initially shied from approaching him with a question she wanted answered, but had dropped the reluctance entirely at some cue or realization Trowa hadn't even recognized, and dove into conversation with the typical Winner resolution. 

It was not an unpleasant memory, but it was also not one he enjoyed having recalled at the moment. He couldn't imagine how Quatre had been treating his family all week -- or, rather, based on Quatre's complaints about them, didn't _like_ to imagine -- and hoped fervently that none of the relatives that didn't live in the huge Winner house had visited since the destruction of the artifact. It would be bad enough if Quatre's mood put a strain only on his relationship with those that _were_ around. 

And speaking of relatives visiting, Trowa reflected, it was very kind of Seifert to have so readily allowed him to come while some of his progeny were in the house. He did his best to give the boy at the door a friendly smile. "You can tell him fifteen minutes," he said. 

"OK," replied the grandson, but did not immediately depart. He was staring at Trowa with calculating eyes. Finally he asked, "How can you see?" 

"What do you mean?" Trowa had never been entirely comfortable around children. 

"Because your hair is over your eyes all the time," the boy explained. "Or one eye or the other eye. How can you see things?" 

"Oh." Trowa was so used to his haircut that he barely noticed it anymore, and had _long_ ago adjusted to any obstruction of vision it might present. "My eyes used to be very strange. I had my hair cut like this so that sometimes, when I was turned a certain direction, other people wouldn't be able to see them." 

"You could just wear glasses," said the child critically. "I mean black glasses like my mom has." 

"I did that sometimes too," Trowa nodded. 

"OK," the boy said, as if satisfied -- though Trowa realized that his original question hadn't, strictly speaking, been answered. And without further goodbye the child disappeared, pulling the door mostly closed behind him. Whether he would remember what he was supposed to be telling his grandfather remained to be seen. 

In fact Seifert did appear after not too long, poking his crooked nose around the door to see what Trowa was up to. Trowa only noticed because he happened to be between documents at that moment. Setting aside the one he'd just finished, he reached out and put a hand on the stack he'd been accumulating of things he couldn't read. "Apparently your ancestors didn't see the benefit of writing magical records in language magicians would understand." 

"German pride, I'm afraid." Seifert's surprisingly gentle eyes crinkled with a smile as he crossed the compact room to stand beside the desk. 

Trowa sighed. Distant unpleasant memories of his own father's particular brand of German pride a hundred years ago had long kept him from studying the language as he might otherwise have done. But he did allow, "Not everyone has the talent to write in the magical language. And any relevant information will be just as useful even if it is in German." 

Seifert pulled up the extra chair he'd brought into the room yesterday when he'd been getting Trowa started in here. Even before he was fully settled, his eyes had begun roving over Trowa's features just as they'd done every time he'd been in the room since then. But when he met Trowa's gaze, he seemed to shake himself, and, breaking away, reached for the stack on the desk. "Excuse me," he said. "I'm still not used to your new look. It's a little startling to see you like this." 

"Just think what mirrors do to _me_," Trowa replied. 

Seifert chuckled. "Remember that I first met you when I was five, though. A dramatic look like yours was makes an impression on a little boy! You've always been a sort of mystical, heroic figure to me." 

Again Trowa sighed. Seifert may have been one of a very few people that had seen his 'new look,' but he was one of many people that viewed Trowa as a mystical, heroic figure. It was embarrassing, and worsened by the fact that this regard the magical community had for him _should_ make it easy for him to request information of them. Yet he'd been so cryptic with everyone about his current problem... 

Seifert put a comforting hand on Trowa's shoulder. "I won't ask for any more details than you've already given," he said kindly. "I _am_ sorry to see that you're trying to deal with something like this so soon after your curse... as if you were destined to be always dealing with magical problems. Just don't forget that you _are_ a bit of a hero to many of us, so you're not alone. Or at least," he added with a wry smile, "you don't have to be." 

Trowa was frowning. From someone close to him, this simple advice might not have penetrated, but from someone removed from the situation, it somehow struck home. Right in the middle of his studies, with only a few brief statements, Seifert had suddenly given him a lot to think about -- the types of information he did and didn't naturally volunteer to someone that might have been a friend; the way he viewed and interacted with people that admired and could potentially help him; the possibility that he might be doomed with magical bad luck -- and this was a lot to think about that he didn't have time to think about. 

Of course, if he was, as Seifert suggested, destined to deal with magical problems on a regular basis throughout his life, putting off thinking about this kind of thing until such-and-such was over might lock him in a miserable stasis as long as he lived. The only thing he could be sure of at this very moment was that, no matter what time he did or didn't spend thinking about things later, right now he had something specific to concentrate on. 

Seifert seemed to read this in Trowa's demeanor, for he smiled again and lifted the top item off the pile. "Well, let me translate for you," he said, "and see if any of this helps."


	176. La Confrérie de la Lune Révéré Part 19

  


The final day of Heero's fairly miserable week as acting Sales Manager was halfway over, but unfortunately the need to remain accessible to the sales team up until the very moment Dorothy was in the building again remained -- which meant that Heero must still eat lunch in the breakroom. After yesterday this was particularly chaotic, and he could really have done with a proper break from the sales team during that hour... but his sense of responsibility wouldn't allow it. And, thanks to the latest angry edict from Quatre, he hadn't even been able to get away from the sales floor a little early today so as to have some alone time with Duo before the rest of the team appeared. Not that alone time with Duo was something he lacked outside of work, but right now he was itching for a specific conversation in private that was agitating to have to put off. 

Of course everyone else was already discussing exactly what he wanted to talk about. Quatre had paid an angry visit to the sales floor not an hour earlier with an actual written list of supposed problems he wanted to address -- most of them minor issues that he normally never would have bothered about -- and given Heero an incredibly hard time about anything and everything, much of it quite petty and all of it far too audible to everyone in the room. 

This had only confirmed, in the minds of those already suspicious, the theory that Quatre's current behavior arose from pain and anger over his breakup with Heero; many of those that had heard the theory but hadn't been quite convinced were now leaning further in that direction. Of course _that_ aspect of Quatre's visit was not something they could discuss aloud in front of Heero and Duo except by means of oblique references and significant gestures they assumed would not be understood... but now Heero could hear their thoughts. 

In between what else he'd been busy with, Duo had spent yesterday evening alternating between rather extreme amusement at the idea that Heero had dumped Quatre for him and indignation that the sales team would believe Heero could possibly behave so callously. Heero could see why Duo might find it funny, but definitely didn't feel that way himself, so he didn't really want to discuss _that_ matter if he didn't have to. He had a slightly more general topic in mind. 

Another weekend approached over which Quatre was probably going to harass his family and torment Trowa even further than he already had. Presumably it was possible that Quatre might come torment Heero and Duo too, but not very likely: Quatre hadn't been to Heero's apartment once since Sunday, nor called or emailed him on a personal basis all week. But apparently he'd still been making his regular visits to Trowa on the east coast, and rendering Trowa more and more unhappy with each passing day. Trowa was, as far as Heero could tell, devoting all his time and energy to finding an answer and a cure, just as he had with Duo's curse for so many years. Heero understood, in fact, that he'd actually bought a plane ticket out to the home of an acquaintance in Montana to look at some magical books for a couple of days. It was a sad thought that Quatre would be making Trowa's weekend even worse than it was already destined to be. 

Inactivity galled. Seven days was surely long enough for this experiment; Heero couldn't imagine letting it go any further essentially doing nothing like this. Not that there was a lot besides nothing he _could_ do when he still wouldn't be able to consult Dorothy until Monday and his internet search back when this all started had been fairly exhaustive without producing many definitive suggestions -- but there was one option he _had_ seen mentioned online that he hadn't explored at all yet, and this he thought should be looked into the very moment they got home. Hell, he would look into it here at work if there weren't the danger of Quatre wandering in at any moment and catching him wasting company time and resources. Heero was salaried, but somehow felt that Quatre in his present condition would not consider this a legitimate excuse for personal internet browsing at the office. 

And everyone's thoughts were so overwhelming! Heero hadn't been able to decide yet whether the benefit of having soothed (or at least redirected) Duo's fears outweighed the inconvenience of having all these ideas in his head all the time competing with his own thoughts, of being still so extremely distracted. There were only a handful of people in the breakroom for whom 'loud projection of anything to cross the mind' didn't seem to be the default state, but their lack of contribution to the mental din helped very little. In fact, though Heero supposed he really should appreciate them, he barely noticed them. Silence was difficult to hear in the midst of noise. 

Duo sympathized -- every time he looked at Heero across the table, he gave him an encouraging smile -- but there was nothing he could do. Heero knew that bothered him, but there was nothing to be done about that either. And what Heero _really_ wanted at the moment was to consult with Duo on Quatre's continued anger and whether it was time for a next step. He could potentially pull him out of the breakroom and talk in the hall, as they'd done yesterday, but he shrank from enhancing the idea, which Duo had put about at that time, that he was engrossed in some kind of family emergency. It would have been a decent excuse at any other point, but now more than half of the gossips on the sales team believed it to have been a lie designed to cover up some blacker aspect of the business with Quatre. He really didn't want to heap any more fuel on _that_ fire. 

As it turned out, Heero did not get the chance for any private conversation with his boyfriend until they left for home after (on Heero's part) aggravating hours of trying to keep his own reflections, anxious and impatient, disentangled from everyone else's. Duo was still the designated driver, since Heero didn't know when he might be hit with a passing thought so distracting he couldn't pay proper attention to road safety, but this was a duty Duo had accepted gladly. 

"I think," said Heero as soon as they were off toward home, "we've waited long enough for Quatre to get over this on his own. What do you think?" 

Duo frowned, and Heero could hear the agreement in his head before he nodded. "I wasn't there for today's tantrum, but it sure sounds like he's getting worse instead of better." 

"I wouldn't say he's getting worse," Heero remarked pensively. "I think he's just... hit his stride. Figured out how to make the most efficient use of the anger." 

"Yeah, that's Quatre." From the glumness of this acknowledgment Duo cheered slightly to add, "But that might mean he'll be using it up faster from now on." 

"Do you think we should keep waiting, then?" 

"What else can we do? Trowa hasn't figured anything out yet, has he?" 

Heero had to admit -- to himself, not aloud -- that he was faintly irritated by the implication that Trowa was the only person capable of doing anything in this situation. But he didn't let it sound in his voice. "I was thinking we could try to get in touch with an exorcist. If this turns out to be something obvious and simple that someone can fix really easily, we're all going to feel stupid." 

"I doubt that'll be the case," Duo said with a slight laugh. "If it's not something _Trowa's_ ever heard of, it's probably not something simple and obvious. But you may be right about finding an exorcist... None of us is necrovisual, so it's probably about time to find out for sure whether this is a necrovisual thing or not." 

"I just don't want to leave Quatre for another weekend like this if there's anything we can try. _We_ probably won't see him, but I'm sure he's going to go bother Trowa." 

It was probably for the best that Heero hadn't aired his annoyance a moment before, as he could detect now that Duo was pleased with his specific consideration for Trowa. Duo had been watching the interaction between them, somewhat concerned that it was turning into a sort of rivalry centered around Quatre, and had been wondering what to do about it; this apparent improvement was relieving, whereas, if Heero had resentfully pointed out that Trowa was not the only person with magic around here, Duo would undoubtedly have continued worrying. 

"OK," said Duo with decision. "So what _do_ we try?" 

"As soon as we get home, let's see what we can find online. Exorcists probably have websites..." 

"If they're with the century. Hey, by the way..." Duo paused as it occurred to him that this wasn't, most likely, the best moment to bring this up. Realizing he might as well say it aloud -- since, in having _started_ to bring it up, he'd probably already projected the thought at Heero -- he shrugged slightly and continued. "When this is over and Quatre's OK, do you mind having a party?" 

Heero could tell that Duo believed he already had a huge number of things to celebrate, and would have another when Quatre was cured, not to mention a lot of new friends he would love to hang out with in a more casual setting than work. Duo actually felt a little sad that he'd never had a large-scale celebration of the breaking of the curse, and astonished that he'd been living in a steady home as a human for nearly five months without throwing a single party. Now that he had his own job, the only remaining reason to wait was Quatre's condition. 

Parties were definitely not Heero's thing. They were, in fact, so far from being his thing that he could imagine few recreational pastimes he enjoyed less... and being unable to escape the deluge of thoughts that existed in a room full of people was _not_ likely to improve that. But he'd been bracing himself for the parties to start ever since the curse had broken -- and he, too, felt some astonishment for the same reason Duo did. It hadn't required awakened communicative magic to pick up on Duo's interest in that particular activity. He was ready for this. "Yeah, sure," he said. "Whenever you want." 

Duo was extremely pleased at this easy acquiescence and excited at the prospect of the as-yet-completely-hypothetical party, and considered these emotions perhaps not entirely appropriate at the moment. He also knew Heero would see the excitement and pleasure anyway, but still thought it good form not to show them. From the demonstrative Duo, this was an admirable sign of sympathy and thoughtfulness, and Heero loved him for it. 

At home, so focused on his goal that he didn't bother changing clothes, Heero only tossed his jacket and briefcase down onto the couch before heading into the computer room. He might have put on something more casual after all, given that his computer was taking longer and longer these days to boot up -- he needed to look into this at some point, especially now that two people were using it on a regular basis -- but he was distracted and engaged by Duo, who had apparently really liked the motion by which he'd removed and discarded his jacket. 

Suddenly against the wall between the open computer room door and the desk, being kissed and groped, Heero raised no complaint despite how interested he was in the evening's task. Duo still loved to explore Heero's body and revel in the ability to feel, even after all this time, and Heero was more than happy to indulge him in this -- at least while the computer took its slow eon turning on. Or perhaps a little longer than that. 

But then Heero caught two startling things at once: an unexpected smell, and Duo's awareness of it. Actually Duo recognized it, assigned a name to what his nose was telling him, a split second before Heero did, but they pulled apart and looked around at the same moment. Nothing immediately visible in this room offered any explanation, so they stepped out into the hall. 

Heero put his head through the bedroom door, but had barely started a quick visual scan before he heard the answer in the head of his boyfriend, who had gone into the living room and simultaneously called out. Heero hurried in that direction, and stopped beside the couch to join Duo looking at the haze of smoke coming through the cracks around Trowa's door.


	177. La Confrérie de la Lune Révéré Part 20

"Crap," Duo said. How much smoke was required for it to be making its way out around the front door like this? How much fire did it take for there to be that much smoke? Roiling darkness blurred the view through the little half circle of windows, but he thought he could make out flickers of orange light in Trowa's living room. Where his hands were pressed against the door as he peered through, the wood was warm. The knob was more so -- not yet painful to grasp, but definitely indicative of greater heat beyond -- and wouldn't turn. 

Without even having to look around or say anything aloud, he found Heero pressing the key into his hand. The idea of rushing into a building that was pretty clearly on fire perhaps lacked sense, but there was no way Duo would just stand here without trying to find out what was going on and making sure Trowa was all right. 

A much larger volume of smoke gushed past the door as it opened, right into Duo's face, and he exclaimed as it burned his eyes and choked him. Through a haze of sudden tears, a single glance showed him visible flames where he'd thought he detected them before, and the hot air wrapped him in an aggressive grip. Behind him, something in the apartment began beeping a noisy alarm, and Heero had left his side. 

Wiping his vision relatively clear again, Duo advanced into the heat of the entryway and dropped to a crouch to get his head out of the worst of the murk. "Trowa!" he bellowed. "Trowa!" There was no sign of his friend, but he could see little in any direction. The door to his right, into the study, was closed; to his left, though he could make out the shapes of Trowa's venerable walnut desk and the computer chair that didn't even begin to match it, they and the rest of the furniture were all in various states of burning. The living room ahead was chaos. 

Coughing, he focused on the fire in the computer room and choked out a command to quell it. Immediately he felt resistance -- the strong, deliberate kind that meant a spell involving specific provisions against reversal had been cast here. Duo didn't have a lot of experience combating that kind of magic, but he thought fast and tried again. 

Behind him, he heard the smoke alarm cut off, and presently Heero had returned and calmly closed the front door, presumably to prevent further smoke pouring into their apartment and frightening the neighbors. 

"This is magic," Duo said when he was done with his second spell, which had been mostly ineffectual. He had almost to shout to make himself heard over the roar and crackle of the fire, and pushing his dried throat for volume made him burst out coughing again. 

"Where's Trowa?" Heero said, close to his ear. 

Duo shook his head, unable to speak just yet. 

The smell of melting linoleum poisoned the already heavy air, and the heat became more and more intense. Duo's spells were working, but only slightly and slowly. At this rate, he might be able to save the foundations of the house, but not a lot besides. As such, staying here much longer was unwise... but where was Trowa? Still in Montana or wherever he'd been researching, or already burned to death two rooms away? 

"Hang on," said Heero suddenly. A glance in that direction showed him pulling his phone from his pocket, but, looking at the device, Heero frowned. He scrambled back to the door, still keeping his head down, and returned into the apartment, and Duo remembered that he got no coverage at Trowa's house. 

For a few moments Duo was alone with the burning building snapping and groaning around him, drawing shallow breaths of scorching air so he could speak spells that still didn't seem to be doing much, facing down an approaching fire on behalf of a friend that might, for all he knew, never be able to appreciate the attempt. He wasn't quite panicking yet -- he was concentrating on his casting -- but it couldn't be long. Pretty soon here he was going to give up trying to do anything about the fire and just run through it to check the rest of the house for Trowa. 

And then the nearly simultaneous sounds of two different doors opening startled him almost into breaking off mid-spell, but he managed to finish, and avoid the danger of leaving it hanging, before he turned. Heero had reentered through the front, and Duo's heart seemed to pick up from a dead stop as Trowa emerged from the study. The fire did not appear to have spread there yet, but smoke accompanied Trowa into the entryway, and Duo could see dancing, crackling gold in the bedroom beyond. The three men convened at a crouch in the center of the entry. 

"I am so fucking glad to see you," Duo said. 

Trowa smiled slightly. "What have you tried so far?" 

"There's a block on putting the fire out, and I can't punch through it." 

"Neighbors outside," Heero informed them -- and good for him, hearing through the walls like that! 

Trowa nodded acknowledgment to both statements, then swept a calculating look around. After a deep breath that couldn't have been comfortable in this air, he made a gesture with one arm that seemed to follow the path of his prior gaze, and spoke. The concept was simple, amounting to little more than, _"Let this fire, by whomsoever it was set and with whatever intent, completely die out,"_ but the spell held so much power that both Duo and Heero, feeling it, took a startled, scrambling step away. 

The resistance gave way all at once; in fact Trowa completely steamrollered it. A brief, chilling rush of cleaner air out of nowhere swirled the smoke madly, and the fires vanished. The red-orange light died, leaving them in near darkness. The roaring and crackling ceased, the oppressive heat began to fade, and the house settled. Silence fell. 

"God, Trowa," Duo said. "You're _still_ the best, aren't you?" 

"That was overkill," Trowa admitted quietly. "But I wanted to be sure." 

Duo's comment about nuking the site from orbit was lost in the growing sound of a siren outside, and presently a blaring horn obscured everything for a few moments, including the noise of a huge engine. Urgently Heero said, "That's the fire truck, and half the neighborhood's out there now. Do you want us to go home before anyone sees us?" 

Trowa considered this briefly. "No, I'd appreciate it if you would stay. This will look strange no matter how many of us there are here. And you can tell me if there's anyone in particular who's likely to make trouble." 

"I can try," said Heero doubtfully. 

"So what the hell was this about?" Duo demanded. "I know you've had _plenty_ of time to make enemies, Trois, but who's trying to burn your house down?" 

Wearily Trowa said, "I have no idea. Right now I'm more worried about what I'm going to say to the police." 

"You're right," Duo frowned. "What's our story?" 

"We were asleep here when the fire started," Heero suggested. 

Duo didn't bother to point out how improbable it would sound that the fully clothed three of them had all been asleep in this tiny house; he just built on it as better than nothing. "So we have no idea _how_ it started; we just jumped up all startled when it woke us up." 

"And we put it out by..." Heero's creativity failed. How the fire had been put out would be a snag no matter how they approached it. 

Now Duo could hear voices outside, but, oddly, no running footsteps. The siren had stopped, the big truck engine still rumbled, but there was no shouting, and nobody seemed to be approaching the house. Shouldn't they be busting in the door about now with a big hose and paramedic stretchers or something? 

"It's... weird..." Heero said slowly, apparently in response to Duo's thoughts. "They're not thinking the way I would expect..." 

"What do you mean?" Though still tired, Trowa's tone was now somewhat sharp. 

"I'm not very good at telling who's thinking what yet," Heero admitted a little stiffly, "and it's hard from here. But everyone I can hear out there... it's like they think everything's already over. Your neighbors were worried and scared just a minute ago, but now they're..." Bafflement sounded in his voice as if he was scarcely able to believe what he was finding. "They're relieved. Some of these are even the firefighters, I think, and they're relieved too. 'Everything's OK now; nobody was hurt' -- that's the feeling I'm getting." 

"But they can't know that!" Duo protested. "Why aren't they coming in?" Not that it might not be better if they didn't, but something was not right. 

"I don't know! It's like they've... skipped something." Another siren was approaching, this one with a different sound to it and unaccompanied by the truck roar. "Police," said Heero briefly. "We'll see what they think." 

The atmosphere inside the dark, charred house had changed. The fire had been unexpected and worrisome, but this aftermath was worse, in a way. They continued to crouch tensely in the entry, listening to Heero's report of what was going on outside and trying to decide what to do about it. Trowa hadn't said anything for a few moments, and was keeping very still; Duo wondered just how much energy he'd actually used to put the fire out. 

"No, the police are in on this too," said Heero at last, "whatever it is. Now there's this feeling out there like, 'Everyone can go home; it's all over.' I think somebody's going to put some tape up, but..." 

"We need to get out there," Trowa said suddenly, standing abruptly straight and hastening to leave the house. He moved so quickly that he had no time to offer any explanation; he'd already flung the door open and stepped out onto the porch. In the light that streamed from the street beyond the front yard, Duo and Heero exchanged a confused and startled glance, then moved more slowly to follow him.


	178. La Confrérie de la Lune Révéré Part 21

  


This was unquestionably brainwashing. Only once before had Trowa observed the phenomenon, but the signs could not be mistaken. And given that at least twenty people were assembled on the sidewalk in front of what remained of his house, someone with some serious communion magic must be behind it. Trowa hurried outside now in the hopes of catching a glimpse of the person or persons responsible before they fled. 

It didn't entirely make sense, though. Why make everyone believe it was all at an end? Why erase the need in the minds of the fire department and police to do what they would normally have done? To set fire to Trowa's house and then essentially smooth over the subsequent first response as soon as Trowa had taken care of things seemed a bizarrely considerate brand of malice. Or was it part of some larger strike against him, and would actually end up causing even more problems in the long run? 

Though he'd hastened out the door, he came to a somewhat weary halt halfway down his front walk, and was moving more slowly as he took a good look around. No visual clues presented in front of him -- he didn't know his neighbors well enough by sight to swear that everyone here besides the fire fighters and police was a resident of the cul-de-sac -- and behind him the view was startling and forlorn. 

It looked as if the fire had been laid on both sides of the house, for the worst blackening and the greatest structural damage was at either end. This was lucky, since both the study that contained his most valued possessions and the entryway where Duo and Heero had come in were approximately central... but he didn't have much hope for the state of his bed in the room on the far right or his computer on the far left. If he'd arrived earlier, perhaps... 

One thing Trowa still excelled at was using too much power on a spell. The sensible course of action would have been to feel out the strength of the magic he was trying to undo and tailor his counterspell to it, but in the (literal) heat of the moment, entering his burning house and finding his friends in some danger, he'd just wanted to get the thing over with. 

Having a lot of energy afterward might not have done him much good in this situation anyway. Even if he hadn't spent so much more than he needed to punch through the opposing spell, he might not have been able to use what he had left effectively: this brainwasher must be worlds more skilled in communication magic than Trowa was to affect this many people so quickly. He did rather wish he'd taken his time on the fire, though. If he'd gone to the trouble to work it out and learn a bit more about it, it might have given him some clue to the identity of whoever had set it. 

What could someone hope to gain by burning his house other than inconveniencing him? They couldn't possibly have been under the impression that he would be personally injured or killed by it, could they? Or was it goods and property they'd been seeking to damage or destroy? What did he have worth targeting? 

"Look at the way they're looking at us," Heero murmured from Trowa's side. "They're not surprised at all. It's like we've already had the first conversation, and now they're just sorry for you because your house is ruined." 

Trowa nodded as he turned again toward the people out beyond the edge of the lawn. "Somebody's gotten to them." 

From his other side, Duo hissed. "You mean a communicator?" 

"Heero, see if you can feel any residual magic in anyone's head." It wasn't likely that Heero, his communicative magic having just awakened, would be able to, but he might as well try. "Duo," Trowa said next, slowly, not ceasing to search the crowd in case he'd missed something, "can you go back inside and wait in the study? If this was somebody trying to get at something in there -- destroy or steal something, I mean--" 

"Got it," Duo broke in. "If someone tries to sneak in while you're distracted, they're going to get a spell in the teeth. But call if you need me out here, OK?" 

Trowa nodded thanks and acknowledgment. Given that he'd been seven states away at Seifert's house all day and most of yesterday, leaving his own residence relatively open to burglary, it seemed highly unlikely that anyone would try to sneak in while he was immediately outside, but he did feel a little better for having that base covered. 

"I don't think I feel magic in anyone's head," Heero said as Duo left. "They mostly feel... not exactly confused, but... unfocused. Like they _are_ confused, but they don't know it." 

Trowa nodded again. 

"I wish I could do this better," Heero muttered. "I've only just barely started hearing people besides Duo, and it's still hard to make sense of it all." 

Turning and observing Heero's somber, focused expression, Trowa said very seriously, "Thank you for trying. I appreciate your help." 

Brusquely Heero nodded. 

A couple of firefighters had poked some whippy stakes into the lawn and were fiddling with a roll of yellow tape that bore the words, _FIRE LINE DO NOT CROSS_. One of the cops was encouraging the neighbors to go home, the other approaching up the mossy flagstone walk. Trowa tried to decide exactly what he was going to say. 

"Did you get ahold of them?" the police officer asked as she neared, exactly as if they'd already had a conversation this evening. 

"Get hold of whom?" Trowa wondered. There really was no other way to answer. He could give an affirmative or a negative, but his bluff would probably fall apart with the officer's next question. 

"Oh." Her frown was one of vague perplexity rather than disapproval or suspicion. "I thought you were calling your insurance." 

"Oh," Trowa echoed. "No, I didn't get hold of them yet." 

A second police car pulled up at that moment, and the woman on the path, after another somewhat unfocused glance at Trowa, turned and went to meet the officer emerging from it. Heero, Trowa noticed, was watching intently, and he definitely had the right idea: if this new cop too slipped into brainwashed mode, it would prove that the communicator was still in the immediate vicinity. 

He was distracted from joining Heero in his scrutiny, however, by an unexpected cry from behind him. "Trowa!?" Glancing over his shoulder, he found Quatre descending the porch steps at a jog with an expression of horror and -- predictably -- anger on his face. "Trowa, thank _god_," was Quatre's fervent declaration as he came to a stop in front of Trowa. "What the hell is going on?" 

Trowa shook his head. "I don't really know." 

"But your house!" Now Quatre sounded impatient. "What happened?" 

"There was a fire--" 

"I can see that," Quatre snapped. "What about you?" 

"Something strange is happening here," Trowa said, lowering his voice. "I'm trying to figure out--" 

Quatre made a frustrated sound even as he reached out and took Trowa by the upper arms and shook him. "Tell me right now you're all right, Trowa Barton, or I swear to god--" 

Well, it was good to know that, even in the midst of his wrath, Trowa's boyfriend was that concerned about him. The expression in Quatre's wide eyes, blocked from the light though they were with Trowa standing between him and the street lamps, was simultaneously reassuring and painful to see. Trowa interrupted him with a quick, "I'm fine; I'm absolutely fine. I wasn't even here when the fire started, but Heero called me and I jumped here to put it out with magic." He raised his hands to grasp Quatre's arms, trying to reassure him. 

"How did it start?" Rather than at all reassured, Quatre seemed just as agitated as before. 

"Magic." 

"Somebody set your house on fire with magic?" Quatre hissed, looking now as if _he_ might set someone's house on fire -- or perhaps just some_one_ \-- solely with his angry expression. "Somebody deliberately tried to hurt you?" He'd gone completely rigid, and the energy rose from him in an unbroken but wavering stream very much like the flames Trowa had dealt with a little earlier inside. "_Who?_" 

"I don't know." As taken aback as Trowa was at Quatre's demeanor, he couldn't help feeling a completely ill-timed thrill at the protectiveness Quatre was exhibiting toward him -- the look in his face and sound in his voice that seemed to indicate Quatre would strike out to avenge him the very instant he had a recognizable target. 

But Quatre didn't appreciate his answer; possibly he recognized the slight wariness in Trowa's tone. "Are we doing this again?" he demanded. "Not telling each other things? Or is this because I'm the only one around here without magic?" 

Trowa restrained himself from arguing, from insisting that he really, honestly didn't know. "Someone was here, and may still be here, who--" 

This time it was Heero that interrupted, with a pointed clearing of throat. Releasing Quatre and turning, Trowa found a police officer coming this way again. The neighbors were dispersing now, since an extra voice and set of hands had joined in the efforts at getting them to, and things were generally quieting down. Whatever had happened when the new car arrived, Trowa would have to hear about it from Heero later. It seemed his attempts at pinpointing the brainwasher in the crowd had been in vain. 

An electronic pad of some sort with a stylus had accompanied the officer this time, so this was probably the discussion he'd been bracing himself for. He would rather finish his conversation with Quatre, but asking the cops to wait a few minutes so he could attempt to placate his magically angry boyfriend probably wouldn't go over too well even if they _had_ been hit by some expert communication spell. 

"OK," said the woman, "I need all your information for my official report." She smiled before positioning her stylus and looking studiously down. "Full name?" 

Trowa had carefully answered the first couple of questions, had barely gotten into the swing of this, and hadn't yet managed to figure out exactly what was being reported and how much trouble he might find himself in after not too long, when he heard Quatre make a noise behind him. It might have been an angry huff, but it might also have been something like a sob... and in either case it said pretty clearly, _"Well, I can see **I'm** not wanted here."_ Trowa didn't need the loud footsteps retreating back to the house, nor the slamming of the latter's door, to know what Quatre's next move was. 

Heero, still standing beside Trowa, watched Quatre's departure with a somewhat pained expression. He probably wanted to go after him and simultaneously lacked any desire to put himself in Quatre's line of fire. At least, if he felt anything like Trowa, those would be his feelings. And he probably knew that, like Trowa, he was needed for something specific right here and now, and simply couldn't afford to leave. In any case, he shook his head and turned back to observing what remained of the group on the sidewalk.


	179. La Confrérie de la Lune Révéré Part 22

  


"They're considering it an accident," was Trowa's weary recap, "probably caused by the old wiring -- the house was built in the 40's, after all. And I probably wouldn't have been able to figure even that out without Heero's help. Playing along with the brainwashing was... a challenge. I doubt I could have managed if they hadn't all been so foggy about what was going on." 

"So you're not going to get in trouble or anything?" As a bystander, and given that his friend was unhurt, Duo felt more burning curiosity (pun perhaps intended) than anything else, but he tried to keep it from his voice since it would only make Trowa more unhappy. Weariness made this a lot easier than it might have been. 

"I don't know." Trowa sounded far more worn out than Duo felt. "From the police probably not, but there's still the insurance to deal with." 

Duo nodded, then yawned. "And no clues at all," he wondered when he could speak again, "who was doing what?" 

Trowa shook his head. 

"I don't know what kind of spells take what kind of skill," Heero murmured from where he stood just behind the sofa, "but I was still impressed with that brainwashing." 

Now Trowa nodded. "It _was_ impressive. Someone with some real power and training must have been out there. I just wish I knew _why_..." 

Heero went on, "When the second cop showed up, he was only wondering what was going on for about half a second after he got out of his car, and then he went into the same frame of mind as the rest of them. So whoever it was must have still been there, and they worked fast." 

Trowa nodded again. 

"Real-time awareness management," said Duo, inventing a label he thought sounded accurate. 

"But I can't reach out and get people's thoughts yet. It's still just whatever's on the surface. So there was no way I could have..." Heero's frustrated remark faded into a sigh. 

"Don't worry about it," Trowa murmured. 

And then nobody said another word -- too tired, Duo thought, all of them. _He_ was half busy contemplating the events of the evening, half blank in the head contemplating nothing at all. He'd assisted in raising a magical barrier around Trowa's house that would prevent entry into the building during the night, and was now, like Trowa, completely spent. 

Finally Heero gave a sigh and pushed away from the couch. Though not nearly as worn out as the other two, his puzzling over the matter of the brainwashing had probably rendered him just as ready for some rest -- and it was, after all, well past bedtime. How so many hours had passed during their little adventure (especially when Duo had spent so much of it kicking around rather pointlessly in the dark in Trowa's study), Duo had no idea. 

"Trowa, if you need anything," Heero said, "just knock on our door." Obviously he'd observed as well as Duo had the reluctance with which Trowa had accepted the offer of the bed in the computer room for the night. Actually, Duo didn't really know how much of Trowa's thoughts Heero could read; possibly Heero had observed far more than Duo had. In any case, Heero was clearly trying to reiterate the welcome. "And feel free to help yourself to anything in the kitchen if you want something to eat." 

"Thank you," Trowa said. Noting that Duo had stood from where he'd been sitting beside him, he added, "Good night." 

Duo gave a comforting pat to Trowa's shoulder before moving toward the hall. "Good night. You get some sleep too!" 

His own sleep was surprisingly placid and deep. In fact, one thought among several upon awakening in the morning was that being magically spent (a condition he hadn't ever properly experienced before) might be a decent way of staving off unpleasant dreams. He would have to ponder this later when his mind wasn't so busy with other things. 

And his mind _was_ busy with other things, which was probably the reason he'd awakened so much earlier than usual on a Saturday. There was a lot to consider and a lot to do today, and no way he was going back to sleep now. His eager jump out of bed raised a complaint from Heero, so he tried to keep quiet as he brushed his teeth and used the toilet and then headed out toward the living room. 

To find Trowa sitting on the couch in so precisely the same attitude as last night that it almost seemed he'd never moved was no surprise, but it _was_ a bit of a surprise to find that he had the TV turned on. Even with the volume almost all the way down, it was the first time he had ever, in Duo's presence, deliberately watched TV (or acted as if he was doing so). 

"How..." Trowa dragged his gaze away from the television slowly and fixed it on Duo, displaying somewhat blurry eyes with dark circles beneath them. "How did you survive so long watching this stuff?" 

Duo grinned. He was not about to remind Trowa that survival hadn't exactly been an area of concern for him during the TV-bound years. Instead he assured him, "Some of it's actually pretty good. But sometimes it's a huge pain trying to find it." Before Trowa could say anything else, Duo went on, "How long do _you_ **expect** to survive not sleeping?" Normally Quatre was the one that got on Trowa's case about this sort of thing, but at the moment Quatre was not available to perform that function. Duo had caught a couple of glimpses of him last night, and it had been more than obvious that Quatre wasn't there to goad Trowa kindly on his personal habits. 

"I slept a little," Trowa said. "I'm still so used to not sleeping at all, or only sleeping when..." He still blushed, too, when he referred to details of his sex life, even those as innocent as the fact that he slept more and better when Quatre shared his bed. 

Duo sat down beside him. "Did you at least have any great ideas while you weren't sleeping?" 

"No. As you said, I've had plenty of time to make enemies, but who would have done this and why I can't guess. I went back home a couple of hours ago and looked around in the light in case there was some message that would explain things, but there was nothing." 

"And divinations?" The fact that Trowa looked perceptibly _more_ tired than last night made Duo assume he'd been doing more magic. 

Trowa frowned. "I think someone is blocking." 

"Same person who cast the spell." 

"Probably. It seems to make sense, in a way... but with the information I have right now, all I can do is guess." 

Duo nodded. "So what's next?" 

"My house isn't livable. I stabilized the floor, so it's safe to walk in, but... I don't even have a bed to sleep in anymore. I'll need to find..." He paused thoughtfully, and didn't seem entirely unhappy as he said, "It's a decent opportunity to move here, actually. I was already thinking of that, but I hadn't made any plans yet... Now there's nothing stopping me. In any case, I'll need a place to stay while I look for something new." 

Duo opened his mouth to say that Trowa was welcome to stay here as long as he needed, but stopped himself. He'd probably better not go around offering out Heero's spare room without talking to Heero about it first. He thought Heero and Trowa had become friendlier of late -- and certainly last night, in particular, seemed to have brought about a greater level of camaraderie between them -- but it was still possible that Heero wouldn't be comfortable with Trowa staying here much longer. The idea saddened him, but he tried to push it aside. 

While Duo thought about this and didn't say what he wanted to say, Trowa went on. "And I'll need to get my things -- whatever isn't ruined -- out of there." 

"Trowa, you're welcome to stay here as long as you need." This was Heero from the hall, where he was emerging from the bedroom. The grogginess in his eyes -- a look Duo had always considered more than a bit adorable -- diminished quickly as he entered the living room, circled the TV stand, and gazed at his boyfriend. He had probably heard Duo's thoughts; Duo wished the reverse could be true, since he knew Heero wasn't likely to want to discuss them in Trowa's presence. "And you're welcome to keep your stuff here," Heero went on after a moment, shifting his glance toward Trowa, "if you think it will fit." 

"Thank you," said Trowa. He looked around calculatingly at the room. "Yes, I think there should be space. Most of my bigger furniture is ruined, and that can stay where it is for now, until..." He sighed. "Until I get the whole house dealt with." Obviously he wasn't looking forward to working with his insurance, and would probably rather abandon the wreckage entirely than come up with a bunch of lies. But he shook his head and returned to the pertinent topic. "The bookshelves are the biggest things that will need to be moved, but everything's covered in smoke, which I don't want to get all over your clean apartment..." 

"We could use some of that painter's plastic to keep it off the carpet," Heero said, "and wipe everything down once it's in here." 

"It's going to be a lot of work." Trowa sounded just as reluctant about this as he had about accepting the bed last night. 

"Then we'd better get started as soon as possible." Heero's businesslike tone reminded Duo a bit of Quatre; perhaps it reminded Trowa too, for he made no protest, just nodded. Then Heero added, "Duo, let's get dressed," in nearly as pointed a manner, and turned back toward the hall again. He hadn't said, 'Duo, let's talk,' but he might as well have. 

His first remark once the bedroom door had given them their privacy was, "This is your home too. If you want Trowa here, we're going to have Trowa here." 

"Yeah, but..." Duo wasn't likely to think of himself as a proper sharer of the home, rather than just a freeloader, until he was contributing to the rent. For several days he'd been running over a mental list of possible expenditures of his first paycheck, and the vast number of things he could buy had thus far seemed too overwhelming for any decision. Now, though, he thought he might feel best about handing over most of his money to Heero for September living expenses. 

Detecting this resolution, Heero made a somewhat frustrated sound. "September's already paid." 

"October, then," Duo replied with a stubborn edge to his voice. 

Finished donning jeans, Heero stopped in the middle of rifling through his t-shirts and turned with a serious smile to face Duo. "I want to help Trowa in any way we can. And I also want you to not forget that you have a choice about things around here. I'm not in charge." 

"Yeah, but I'm not going to just go over your head and invite someone to stay here without even talking to you about it." 

"Trowa is not 'someone,'" Heero insisted. "Trowa is your best friend. When your best friend's house burns down, you _don't_ have to ask me first to invite him to stay here." 

A hint of something like resentment arose in Duo at being lectured, even if what Heero urged was the autonomy Duo wanted to gain and express. Even as the sensation occurred, he was already trying to repress it; it wasn't fair -- it was just a thoughtless emotional reaction that would pass soon enough -- and he didn't want Heero picking up on it and thinking Duo was truly annoyed with him. 

Heero evidently caught it anyway, for he stiffened a bit and his smile faded. He grabbed the first shirt to hand and turned away. Moving toward the nightstand, he pulled the t-shirt over his head and then reached to disconnect his phone from its charger. He offered no explanation, just started dialing someone, his back still to Duo. The latter continued dressing in silence as he waited to find out whom Heero was calling. 

When Heero opened the conversation in Japanese, it narrowed down the possibilities quite a bit, and common sense shrank the field even further. Catching Trowa's name, Duo thought he could guess, in general, what the call was about. He did wonder which language Heero would have conducted the discussion in if he and Duo hadn't just had a tense little moment. 

This business of having Heero in his head all the time was... well, it was a pain in the ass, really. It made things far more complicated than they needed to be. People _without_ communicative magic could easily have little flashes of emotion that faded quickly and went completely unmentioned without causing strain. There would always be something even in the best of relationships that annoyed one or both parties, and under normal circumstances it didn't need to be brought up unless it grew into a real issue. It seemed unfair that things had to be so much more... sensitive... around here because of Heero's budding talent. 

But at the same time, they were dealing with it. Even in the midst of other problems -- and god knew they had enough right now -- they were dealing with it. They weren't going to let it ruin things. Duo loved Heero, didn't see any impossible barriers in their way, and figured that even a rocky period like this would only make their lives better in the long run. 

Heero finished his call while Duo tied his shoes, and when Duo sat up from this endeavor he found his boyfriend right in front of him, looking down at him seriously in silence. When their eyes met he said, "Relena and Colin are going to come help, and grab some things we might need on their way over. I promised her lunch, so I need to go see what we have in the kitchen." 

"OK." Duo stood. "Good idea." 

"Also," Heero added, reaching out, "you're right. We're dealing with it. We won't let it ruin things." 

And for a minute or two, things were absolutely fine.


	180. La Confrérie de la Lune Révéré Part 23

  


Quatre had already observed the state of Trowa's entryway yesterday evening, before Trowa had dismissed him, but in the light of early afternoon and less of a heart-clenching hurry he was better able to mark specific changes. The walls and ceiling, previously an aged off-white, were stained now an irregular blackish brown; the light fixture above him, normally a translucent plasticky gold, was murky with it. It was as if the entire place has been airbrushed by someone with a penchant for disgusting neutrals. 

But smoke damage wasn't the only difference to the scene. The grandfather clock and the umbrella stand were absent, the former leaving a blur-edged but roughly clock-shaped lighter spot on the wall behind it. Quatre wondered, first, where the clock had gone, and, second, how damaged it had been by the smoke. He was quite fond of that clock, and the thought that it might have been ruined only added to his anger at what had happened here. 

He moved into the computer room to his left, stepping slowly and carefully as the charred floorboards creaked under his feet. There was no significant give, so for the moment he felt safe in walking forward, but he didn't need to advance too far. 

The room was a sooty gradient that lightened toward the doorway, and the damage to the furniture so extensive that he had a hard time making sense of the chaos even with prolonged staring. He remembered pretty well what _should_ be in here, but the dark objects that all seemed connected by blackness, and that probably _were_ connected in many places by having melted and fused together, could not be easily distinguished one from another -- even in the extra light that streamed through the jagged hole in the wall behind and around what remained of the desk. The smell of scorched electronics still mingled with the lingering, less nasty scent of burned wood, but the computer that had given this chamber its name was nowhere to be seen. 

He stared around, frowning. It looked as if Trowa's entire record collection was destroyed; the Victrola certainly didn't appear usable. One of the few indulgences Trowa had allowed himself over the years, not to mention a valuable set of, essentially, historic artifacts, had been ruined here. Somebody was going to pay for this. Oh, how his head ached... 

Quatre turned entirely around, still frowning, to the closed door of the study. 

There was less smoke damage in here, but the room looked very forlorn, in large part because of the removal of half of the shelves. The table, too, was gone, with all its chaos of documents and open books. The old tasseled armchair, faintly discolored, still stood in the corner between a remaining bookshelf and the far wall, and Quatre advanced across the creaking floor to put a hand on one of its wings. 

He had so many memories of this room, this chair, from the past few months -- most of them good, some bittersweet. Who would have done this? Who had targeted Trowa's home and all those memories? Quatre didn't care what was believed of Trowa that made someone feel they had the right to attack him like this. This was going too far. 

His movements were jerky, almost reluctant, as he stepped to the bedroom doorway. He didn't know if he had the heart to look around in here; _these_ memories were, in some ways, even closer and deeper. He was already so angry; he should really just leave... but something drew him on. The inclination to examine a disaster was, he supposed, human nature. 

This room, like the computer room, had opened to the sunlight, which streamed past the dark edges of the hole in the wall with incongruous cheerfulness onto the charred interior. The bed, half burned away, was bizarrely misshapen and only recognizable because of its location. The chair that had previously stood beside it was missing, and, indeed, the floorboards failed just before where it should have been. Quatre wondered why the creaking floor didn't collapse under his weight after this level of destruction. Quite possibly it wasn't even safe for him to be here. At the moment, he didn't give a damn. 

Trowa's wardrobe, against the opposite wall, had lost one of its doors, so scorched was it. The other door stood open, allowing Quatre to see that Trowa's meager and somewhat drab collection of clothing, whatever its state, had been emptied out. Clearly a fair amount of work had already taken place to move the usable items that remained in the house, but where those items had gone was a mystery. The only thing Quatre knew was that they hadn't gone to the most logical destination. 

He didn't really feel like assessing the damage to the bathroom, but he stepped through it anyway to use its second door out into the living room. The fire must have arisen at three different points, since this too had suffered seriously and been opened to the outside air. The window beside the dining table gaped, and broken glass from the fallen panes littered the floor, mingling with china that had shattered when the cabinet it inhabited had burned away and dropped it. 

The 'living' area had never been more than sparsely furnished, and now what wasn't structurally destroyed was still probably completely unusable for smoke damage. He found himself staring angrily down at the old, stiff sofa in front of the ironically minimally-stained fireplace, tempted to reach out and run a finger across the wooden back to see how much soot he could pick up on his skin. This sofa was nearly as ugly as the chair in the study, and far less comfortable, but he had associations with it similar to -- if not as numerous as -- those he had with the chair. He almost couldn't believe this had happened. 

As he stood, still and contemplative, head throbbing, in the miserable light of the fire-gutted house, the silence was broken by the sound of the front door opening and footsteps and voices in the entryway off behind him -- voices far too cheerful and footsteps far too energetic. Quatre's frown deepened as he listened. Duo's was the first and most recognizable voice, and cheer was the norm for him, but this hardly seemed the time or place for it. He recognized Heero's voice as well, briefly, and Relena's; that less familiar one must be Colin's. They sounded as if they'd just come off a break and were now getting back to work. That answered a few of Quatre's questions, but also raised a few more. 

"Quatre!" 

Not wanting to see anyone's smiling face under these circumstances, Quatre hadn't turned toward the newcomers; he knew it would only make him more angry. But at the sound of Trowa's surprise from the doorway into the living room, he did turn at last. 

Trowa had that rumpled, weary-eyed look that said he'd spent the night in his clothes, and probably slept not for very long if at all. He moved toward Quatre across the room with a hesitant expression, as if he might back off again at any time. Imagining a scared rabbit approaching a fox, Quatre felt his own expression hardening. "What is everyone doing here?" he asked, aware that it came out a little snappishly but feeling fully justified therein. It was only natural, after all, to wonder somewhat acerbically what a group of friends was doing here without having invited him, without even having _told_ him. 

"Moving things into Heero's apartment," Trowa replied. "For temporary storage." 

Quatre stood silently for a moment, watching the wrath build. He felt as if the anger, though certainly his, was also somehow unrelated to, disconnected from him. The impression was uncomfortably surreal, and how things were changed by the fact that he _might_ be personally responsible for this distance from his own mood, he couldn't tell. It didn't matter much; he was angry in any case. "You're moving things into Heero's apartment." 

"Yes. He and Duo very kindly offered their extra room and space for my things until I find a new place." The uneasiness in Trowa's voice showed clearly that he was aware he'd done something wrong. 

"And you felt like you had to _wait_ for _me_ to offer? You wouldn't even have had to ask to stay at my house, but you didn't even _ask_! And suddenly you're staying at _Heero's_ house? All of a sudden getting along that well with Heero is some pretty damn fast progress!" 

A flicker of annoyance crossed Trowa's face, and something in Quatre responded like a fire to fuel. He was readier for a confrontation than he thought he'd ever been -- especially with Trowa. It made sense for him to be upset about this, and if Trowa thought he'd been right to ignore their relationship completely and seek assistance elsewhere, he needed to state his reasons. 

Trowa's signs of irritation quickly disappeared, however, and his face faded back to the usual indifference, with only a touch remaining of the same unease as before. "I don't see any way I could move things into your house without explaining everything to your parents, and maybe everyone else who lives there." 

It seemed as if he might go on, but here Quatre broke in. "Yes, god forbid we _tell_ someone something, especially family. But I guess it's just _my_ family, since Heero's sister is allowed to know." 

"Heero's sister already knew. But your parents know nothing about any of this -- we would have to explain it to them all at once and then add that we were moving a lot of smoke-damaged furniture into their home." 

"So basically it _is_ just that you don't want to have that conversation." 

"No, that's not it." Signs of annoyance were returning. "But this way was faster and easier. There wasn't time--" 

"And when _will_ you have time, Trowa? It's been five months; you've met my parents a dozen times; they even more or less like you. So when do _you_ think is a good time to tell them that you're actually older than they are?" This was unfair. The one to suggest they wait until his parents were used to Trowa on a normal level before introducing the abnormal had originally been _Quatre_, and _Trowa_ the one primarily bothered by lying to them. It was unfair to attack Trowa on this basis, and Trowa really should defend himself. 

When Trowa replied, "You should be the one to decide that," it wasn't quite a proper defense even if it did reasonably point out a flaw in Quatre's questioning. Trowa's voice was somewhat tight, though, as if he was _still_ fighting off irritation, and perhaps by now a little hurt. "You have to live with them." 

Quatre crossed his arms. "Is that a problem?" It was like he was careening down a steep hill at higher and higher speeds. "Does it bother you that I live in my parents' house at twenty-four?" He probably had brakes he could employ, but it almost seemed horrific to try in case it turned out he didn't. 

"No!" Now Trowa sounded surprised and unhappy. "Why should that bother me?" 

"Well, given the huge mystery you've made about _your_ parents--" Quatre actually managed to cut himself short with a snap of teeth. It was more than unfair; it was cruel. _He_ was cruel. Of course he could choose not to be, but given the provocation, why bother? It was better just to say nothing more. Better just to leave. He shouldn't be around people if he could help it. And it didn't matter that something inside him, something that _liked_ being around people and _wanted_ to bother, felt ready to shrivel up and die. 

Movement caught Quatre's eye, and, looking over his boyfriend's shoulder, he saw his best friend in the doorway. Heero's expression was a mixture of unhappiness and concentration, as if he were trying to do something about whatever it was he didn't like by standing there staring at Quatre. For some reason, Quatre found this extremely annoying, and getting out of here suddenly top priority. 

"Quatre..." Trowa said as Quatre pushed past him. 

"Quatre..." Heero said as Quatre pushed past him. 

"Quatre!" Duo said in some surprise in the entryway. 

"Quatre?" came Relena's interested voice from the next room. 

Quatre snorted as he reached for the front door, trying to pretend he was only derisively amused by the repetitive calls. Trying to pretend it didn't tear him up to hear their concern, to know they had every reason for it, and simply walk away.


	181. La Confrérie de la Lune Révéré Part 24

After the whirlwind Saturday and Sunday helping Trowa, Heero had yet been a little surprised to encounter Monday so soon -- surprised, but not unhappy. Though nothing he'd wanted to get done over the weekend had gotten done, and though an unpleasant confrontation between Quatre and Trowa such as he'd anticipated had taken place, at least today was the day of Dorothy's return to work so she could be consulted. Heero recognized that he might be hanging too much hope on his co-worker's completely unknown level of expertise, but he couldn't help it. After Saturday, he had to cling to whatever hope was available. 

He'd tried to read Quatre's mind -- tried harder than he yet had to get at someone's thoughts deliberately -- but it hadn't worked. This frustrated him endlessly. Hadn't the beginning of this problem, specifically Quatre's sudden distress, marked the awakening of Heero's communicative abilities? Why couldn't he get into Quatre's head if he was already connected to him strongly enough to have had that warning dream? 

Despite his inability to read Quatre's thoughts, however, he'd still known Quatre for a decade; he didn't need magic to get some clue about what his friend was feeling and thinking during this crisis. And what he'd detected by more natural means during that little argument with Trowa had been poignantly disturbing. Quatre's demeanor had been one Heero had rarely seen in him, but thought he recognized: it was the look and sound of a man that valued control over many things losing it irrevocably. 

Quatre couldn't control his anger, could barely control his reactions to that anger, was losing control even of the coping mechanisms he'd been attempting thus far, and absolutely must break down eventually. And one of the very last sights in the world Heero wanted to see was Quatre breaking down. Therefore he looked forward to arriving at work so much that he wasn't even bothering to point out how often Duo, seemingly every bit as eager as Heero, was tailgating on the way there. 

Dorothy's style of dress was the type of which people said, 'So sharp you'll cut yourself,' so she was easy to spot even from across the parking lot. They didn't catch up with her until the second floor inside, though, and by that time Duo was so impatient that he actually shouted. 

She paused and turned back, and as she saw them she smiled in that critical manner that was, in her, not infrequently a sign of friendliness. "Oh, yes," she said, as if just remembering, "you _did_ start while I was gone, didn't you?" 

Duo grinned as he came up to her. "Yep! How was your vacation?" 

"Right now," Heero put in pointedly and quickly, to ensure no conversation on casual topics got started, "I need you to come with me." 

"All right. Where?" 

Heero turned with a restrained but emphatic gesture. "Upstairs." 

"OK." She sounded curious and amused, but the point was that she followed. 

Heero might have explained as they walked, but rather hoped that a single glance at Quatre and the energy rising from him would tell Dorothy everything she needed to know. Yes, he was definitely putting too much faith in her abilities. But at least now he didn't have long to wait. 

They caught Quatre in a hallway. If Heero was any judge (and he should be), Quatre was not, as they were, just arriving, but had been here for a while and briefly stepped out of his office for some reason or other. It was a stroke of luck in any case, since Heero, assuming 'I'm here to make Dorothy look at you' would not have gone over very well with an angry Quatre, didn't know what other excuse he would have invented to enter Quatre's office. 

Dorothy pushed past Heero and Duo the very moment she saw Quatre, stepping forward smartly with an expression of sudden interest. Quatre came to a stop as she approached him, a confused scowl growing on his lips and between his eyebrows. In an almost predatory fashion, Dorothy began to circle her Regional Manager, a hand moving to her incredulously fascinated face as she looked him up and down as if he were an art exhibit or perhaps a car wreck. 

"Dorothy," said Quatre in a voice half stern and half petulant, "I'm completely gay." This was something he might have said as a perfectly good-natured joke under normal circumstances, but from his current tone it was very clear that he wasn't messing around. 

It certainly made no difference to Dorothy. "Yes." She dragged out the word sluggishly as if not entirely aware she said it. She was just finishing her second slow circle of Quatre. 

The latter gave his watch a quick, brow-lowered glance, then transferred that look to Heero, who still stood a few paces down the hall trying to remain invisible. "Can we maybe get to work?" 

"Oh, yes," said Dorothy, in the same absent tone as before. She came to a gradual halt, took one step back, gave Quatre a last head-to-toe scan, and nodded thoughtfully. Finally she turned away and moved to rejoin Heero and Duo. Quatre sighed in frustration and turned abruptly toward his own office. 

"What on _Earth_ happened to him?" Dorothy demanded as they all began walking away toward the elevator again. She sounded far more impressed than concerned. "That is a serious concentration of energy!" 

"We're not completely sure," Heero replied. 

At the same moment -- because having turned a corner away from Quatre had made them all feel freer to discuss this -- Duo said, "What kind of energy?" 

"It's red shade energy," Dorothy replied with the hint of a puzzled look, "but something's a little unusual about it. And there's a _lot_ of it; I don't think I've ever seen someone possessed that hard." 

"So waiting for it to work itself off isn't likely to help," said Heero. 

Dorothy laughed somewhat derisively as she pushed the elevator call button. "Is that what you've been doing? Good god. How long has he been like this?" 

"Ten days." 

"What's going on with the energy?" Duo put in. "We've been wondering about that, since if it's just red shade energy, at least _I_ shouldn't be able to see it." 

"I have no idea! I'd have to have a much longer look, but I'm going to guess he's not in any mood for people to poke around him." 

Duo laughed bitterly, covering a similar but quieter sound from Heero. 

"You need to get an exorcist in here as soon as possible." Dorothy placed a hand on a pinstriped pocket where her phone presumably lived. "I'll give you a number." 

"Thank you," Heero murmured. Even though Dorothy had actually told them very little, he still felt sincerely grateful and that his hopes had not been at all disappointed -- maybe in part because it relieved him to have someone else in the know. The theories about Quatre's condition in the minds of the non-magical majority were unsettling, whether they involved a messy breakup with Heero or not, and Heero knew of no one besides Duo, himself, and Dorothy at this office that had magical abilities and would understand the truth. Admittedly he was not even a little bit sure of this, and could be very wrong; it was an assumption based on the building-wide reactions to both the doll on Heero's desk earlier this year and Quatre's condition now, as well as on what he'd read in people's heads so far. 

It was this thought that made him notice, all of a sudden, that he wasn't picking anything up from Dorothy, and that made him wonder briefly whether the other people at the office whose thoughts he didn't pick up -- the other quiet ones -- might not also all be quietly magical. It was interesting to realize that, though he'd joined the ranks of the supernaturally talented, he still took it for granted that everyone he met had no such skill. Nonmagicalnormativity, perhaps? What percentage of the population actually did have magical ability? He would have to discuss this with Duo at some point. 

When they reached the spot where the latter needed to break off to head for his training room, Heero could feel the extreme disinclination to do so in his head. "I'll call right away," Heero assured him, "and tell you about it at lunch. Oh," he added, his voice sinking to a mutter as he remarked mostly to himself, "and we don't have to eat in the breakroom." 

"OK," said Duo reluctantly. He added silently a wish of good will and optimism about the plan, then turned and walked away. 

Upon the entrance of Heero and Dorothy onto the sales floor, half the room stood up. As their overwhelming wave of friendly curiosity and welcome mixed with a manic desire to acquaint Dorothy with everything that had happened recently, Heero sighed. "They can't decide whether to ask about your vacation or tell you all about last week first," he murmured. 

Dorothy shot him a sidelong curious look. "I could have guessed that, but somehow I get the feeling you didn't. Hello, Hilde." She chuckled as Hilde terminated an unnecessarily fast and energetic approach with a big hug. "Heero, why is Hilde so happy to see me? What have you done to my sales team?" 

Heero, who was too impatient to get the phone number, just shook his head and moved on toward his own desk. 

"Have you heard about Quatre, though?" Hilde demanded. "You missed the craziest week!" 

"Hmm, you don't know about my experience in Lake Shasta Cavern," Dorothy said with mysterious facetiousness. She pushed off Hilde and followed Heero, lifting a hand to deflect queries from three other co-workers about how her time away had gone. Once she'd copied out a name and number from her phone onto a Post-It at Heero's desk, however, she turned back to face the adoring masses, answer all their interested questions, and listen without any surprise whatsoever to their descriptions of Quatre's behavior lately. Heero had to admit that he wasn't entirely disinterested, himself, in her unusual vacation, and thought she could definitely do with the details of Quatre's symptoms, but all attention he was paying to the scene dropped right off as he looked at the information in front of him. 

It took no longer than a moment to decide to make the call outside this space where the thoughts of over a dozen people were swirling uncontrollably around him. So he fetched his cell phone, pulled the top Post-It from the pad, and walked swiftly from the room. 

He stopped first at the water cooler across the hall, but soon moved on; he didn't like having the open doors so close by, wanting a more complete barrier between himself and the noisy minds. When he felt relatively comfortable in a corner near the elevators, he dialed the number. It was 8:00 in the morning, and what hours exorcists kept he had no idea, but he didn't much care. 

And if he had cared, it would have been unnecessary: the voice that answered after a ring and a half didn't sound newly awakened, only businesslike and perhaps a bit harsh. It had an accent to match the name Dorothy had written down, which was no surprise to the bilingual Heero. 

"This is Hajime."


	182. La Confrérie de la Lune Révéré Part 25

This had been a day of mixed frustration and anticipation for Trowa. Lengthy discussions with his insurance had lasted practically all morning, with results ambivalent at best. They were in touch with the police department, of course, but when an assessor eventually went out to examine Trowa's house, discrepancy was sure to come to light. No aged wiring had caused that fire, and Trowa didn't know how to fake the signs. No more could he brainwash the insurance agent into a perspective that would match that of the police. He still didn't quite know what he was going to do about this. 

In the middle of it all, however, Heero had called to inform Trowa that a co-worker of his had confirmed the presence of red shade in Quatre's condition, and that he'd made an appointment with an exorcist. Since this appointment was for tomorrow evening, Heero could easily have waited until he came home from work tonight to tell Trowa this, and Trowa appreciated that he'd called the moment he had the news in order to improve Trowa's day with the prospect. 

He tried not to hope too fervently. He didn't want to be let down. But he was so ignorant of the solution to Quatre's problem that he had to make do with hope in place of knowledge. And under the influence of that hope, after he'd talked to Heero and still between insurance conversations, he had -- perhaps foolishly -- engaged a real estate agent to take him on a tour of houses on Wednesday. It had been an impulsive decision, and there were a number of ways he could be bitterly disappointed in its outcome, but he hadn't yet decided to cancel. 

He was trying not to think about the possibility that Quatre, newly friendly again, would join him looking at houses; he was trying not to think about the future. He felt he walked a high, narrow wall that stood between great happiness and great sadness, and which direction he would eventually fall was largely beyond his control. But even if Quatre's cooperation in this matter turned out to be impossible, Trowa ardently longed for a new home of his own as soon as he could get one. 

Until its destruction, he hadn't realized how attached he'd been to his own house. It wasn't anything specific about the structure or his setup therein; it was the very simple circumstance of having his own space, a retreat from the tiresome world, a place that corresponded with himself. Now he was like a hermit crab without a shell: he felt exposed and very uncomfortable. He was out of his element, imposing on friends, and unable to orient himself properly. And to this discomfort had been added distinct embarrassment at the snatch of conversation he'd caught last night: 

"We really... can't do that right now. Not with Trowa here." 

"What? Why? It's not like he doesn't know." 

"Yes, but you're... kinda loud..." 

"That's because--" 

At that point, of course, hot-faced, Trowa had moved away so as to hear no more. But it was clear he wasn't the only one that would prefer him elsewhere as soon as could be managed. So he would look at houses the day after tomorrow regardless of how things stood or how he felt about them. 

Now it was lunch time -- or perhaps well past, depending on which time zone he was judging by -- but as usual, despite Heero's repeated assurance that he was welcome to anything in the kitchen, Trowa couldn't muster a great deal of interest in eating. It wasn't just that he was accustomed to not eating: he was accustomed to feeling active hunger and _still_ not eating. He was accustomed to eating with Quatre; in fact, he rather associated food with Quatre in its entirety -- far more than he associated it with satisfaction or survival (except as far as Quatre represented those conditions to him as well). But since he had finally finished all his phone calls (for now), he needed something else to do -- though at the moment anything he chose would merely function as a time-killing technique until tomorrow evening when, hopefully, everything would be set right. 

Of course research was his usual fallback at such a moment. He did have his books and papers right here in Heero's apartment, but they were stacked in tall piles consecutively leaned against the bookshelves, and not at all convenient. Internet research was probably a better idea. And this reminded him also that he hadn't checked his email since Friday morning before he'd gone to Seifert's house; perhaps by this dreary Monday afternoon someone might have answered his questions. _Surely_ they must have by now. And those answers might confirm whether or not this exorcist tomorrow was likely to be of any real help. 

Heero's computer took an unforgivably long time to start up, and Trowa sat gloomily in the chair staring around the guest room while he waited, wondering vaguely what the predominantly juvenile contents of the bookshelf said about his host. Then he had to orient himself to a new browser that didn't have all his logins saved, but eventually he reached his inbox. It was stuffed, as usual (especially after a few days of distraction), and his long experience allowed him to glance over the subject lines and pick out the few he wanted to read right away. 

The first, in fact, was compellingly obvious, for it came from the only person among his immediate contacts he specifically knew to be necrovisual. Having a distressing history of dead ends, he'd long since ceased feeling much anticipation or excitement even at the promise of information, but still he clicked on that email fairly enthusiastically. 

Trowa's original message had been somewhat terse, but this reply was even more so, limited to a single question in response to the symptoms Trowa had related: _Has the subject recently destroyed a powerful artifact?_

Trowa sat back with a faint scowl. This was what he got for being uncomfortable admitting that his primary source of power was gone. He'd already assumed that the destruction of the artifact had contributed to Quatre's change, and he should have included that information in his description. Failing to do so had merely added an extra step to this process; now he would respond to this email with what he should have said in the first place, and probably have to wait another couple of days for a more informative response. 

This was nothing but Trowa's fault, and for several moments he thoroughly hated himself for it. So frustrated was he, in fact, with himself and the situation, that he didn't answer the email immediately; he backed out of it and clicked on the next one he'd determined merited early perusal. 

_Our esteemed Mr. Barton,_

_It has come to our attention that action has recently been taken against you, in the form of arson against your home, by certain members of our society as revenge for the destruction of an artifact in your possession. This communication is made to assure you that this was an unsanctioned action independently embarked upon by a small radical element, since reprimanded, and does not represent the attitude or goals, immediate or long-term, of our society as a whole. You are in absolutely no further danger from us. As a collective, we hold you in as high consideration and trust as ever, and we beg you not to believe that your decision to destroy Roussel's artifact has in any way affected that opinion._

_Honored to address you,_

_Vallis Rheita, La Confrérie de la Lune Révéré_

Again Trowa sat back in the chair, mouth slightly agape, breath knocked right out of him for a moment by this surprise. 

La Confrérie de la Lune Révéré? In 2010? Emailing him in English? 

He'd been under the impression that they had ceased to exist after the French Revolution, that they'd _never_ existed outside of France. He'd been under the impression that they'd been little more than a sort of aristocratic club with no practical use for their magical talents. He'd been under the impression that they'd created the artifact completely by accident, not that they'd had some kind of... reverence... for it. Or for the man into whose hands it had fallen. 

Perhaps it shouldn't be quite so astonishing that La Confrérie was still around and had picked up English (some especially formal-sounding English at that), but Trowa had done so much research on them and never heard a word about it... Of course that had all been in France, so if they had migrated to the U.S. during the turmoil of the late eighteenth century, it was no improbability that no records of that move had survived in the places Trowa had been looking. 

As far as he knew, they'd never been a particularly _big_ organization. Had they grown since changing locations? They obviously knew who _he_ was. By the tone of the email, in fact, they knew him extremely well, and possibly assumed that he knew them. Why had he never heard anything from them before this? They must still be fairly small and secretive... and yet keeping an eye on him. 

Obviously they knew that Trowa had decided to destroy the artifact... but just as obviously _weren't_ aware that somebody else had carried out the actual destruction -- which probably meant they had kept track of the artifact through some kind of sympathetic magic that allowed them to monitor its existence but not necessarily details thereof. Except that they knew _he_ still owned it. 

He wasn't terribly fond of the thought that this group was monitoring him, however closely or distantly, but it wasn't too different from most of his other fans, really. Many people knew he drew his power from a particularly potent artifact, and evidently this had never lessened anyone's opinion of him. None of his other fans, though, however radical, had ever set fire to his house. 

This Vallis Rheita assured him that the arson had been carried out by a small subset and he should be in no further danger... but could she or he really guarantee that? Not that Trowa really feared what they might try to do to him -- even without the artifact he was still, if not 'the best' as Duo had claimed on Friday night, extremely skilled at command magic and extremely knowledgeable about far more than that -- but this was a complication he didn't need right now. 

Scattered clouds in a warm sky were something of a surprise to find himself looking at, and it took him a moment to recall that he'd left the computer chair as he pondered and gradually wandered into the hall (much more conducive to pacing), whence he'd eventually found his way out onto the balcony. His brain was so full and his thoughts so engrossing that he barely registered the fact that he'd moved, or the presence of the brown and white bird standing on the railing beside him with its shoulders hunched as if he might give it something to eat if it looked at him the right way. 

He wondered suddenly whether or not La Confrérie and their little radical unit had anything to do with Quatre's current condition. He didn't see how they could -- especially if they didn't know that Quatre had been the one to wield the axe -- but it was a compelling idea. That La Confrérie had shown up in Trowa's life immediately after Quatre's problems had started made perfect sense as a total coincidence, and yet was difficult to dismiss as being unconnected. Any connection, though, was beyond his deductive ability at this point. 

This at least started to explain the brainwashing. The 'high consideration and trust' in which La Confrérie held 'our esteemed Mr. Barton' might well lead them to try to help him avoid some of the unpleasant repercussions of the unsanctioned action of their vengeful minority. Though it was a little odd that the brainwashing had started so soon after the fire had. 

How would La Confrérie have found out so quickly what their radicals were up to? More sympathetic magic? Or was someone keeping an eye on the radicals too? That seemed more consistent with the speed of the response, but in that case, why hadn't the arson been prevented to begin with? Still, given that the fire _had_ happened, he appreciated the efforts to make the situation easier for him to deal with afterward. And it was interesting to note that La Confrérie, whatever the size and type of their organization at this point, had such a potent communicator on staff. 

Glad he was now that he hadn't started any actual research or set any particular goals for this afternoon; it would have been disappointing to be unable to accomplish any of it thanks to all the wondering that was all he was likely to get done now. Well, and he could try a few divinations to see if he could figure anything out, though he'd had less and less faith in his ability to get an informative answer to any divination lately. So the frustration and anticipation of this day did not look like diminishing, but at least for a while now it promised to be a _busy_ frustration and anticipation, which was really all he could ask for at this point.


	183. La Confrérie de la Lune Révéré Part 26

At the big wall of window that formed an entire side of his office, Quatre stood looking out with his back to the other men in the room, and Duo wondered what he was thinking. He _must_ recognize at least the presence of an unusual condition; surely he was happy at the prospect of a cure! But the current stiffness of his spine and the abruptness of any movement he made gave him an air extremely annoyed and put-upon, as if he considered waiting around after work for an exorcist a favor he was granting his friends rather than a much-needed therapeutic exercise for himself. 

Duo almost couldn't believe Quatre had agreed to this. What Heero must have gone through to convince him Duo could not imagine; presumably the endeavor had only succeeded at all because friendship and Quatre's regard for Heero's opinion still remained even underneath Quatre's anger, but it couldn't have been an enjoyable conversation. 

Shaking his head, Duo turned to examine the room, which he was visiting for the first time. Perfectly well organized though full of things, and, for a managerial office, very friendly and welcoming, it reflected Quatre's normal attitude quite well. Duo couldn't help thinking that _he_ wouldn't really enjoy spending a lot of time even in an office this pleasant... but maybe that was merely because of how the resident of this one had been behaving lately. 

His eye was caught and held by the large picture frame beside Quatre's computer. It shifted to a new photo every seven seconds or so, displaying the faces of Quatre's close acquaintances in cheerful succession. There were parents and nieces and nephews and sisters and in-laws at family functions, various friends (including Duo himself) in different states of casual interaction, quite a few images from their beach trip this summer, and... a _lot_ of Trowa. Duo was inclined to smile as he slowly worked out the Trowa:other-people ratio, and wondered if Trowa was aware of just how often Quatre photographed him. 

Some of them were even from before the breaking of the curse, and the paleness of Trowa's skin and eyes was startling after several months of getting used to his restored naturality. Duo wondered with a slight shiver -- he wasn't sure exactly what emotion prompted it, but it was strange and a little uncomfortable -- whether Quatre had photos of him as a doll. He didn't remember Quatre ever taking any, but a lot of these pictures of Trowa looked as if they'd been taken on the sly. 

When Duo glanced up again, he twitched as he found that very Trowa, previously absent, standing beside him. Recovering quickly from his startlement, "I didn't even feel anything," he said admiringly. 

"I'm adjusting to using less power to jump," Trowa replied with a nod. 

Quatre turned from the window, scowling and apparently trying to smile at the same time, which looked uncomfortable and pathetic. And when he said, "So all my audience is here now," it wasn't the first recent instance of a remark that might have been a joke now bearing a bite that induced Duo to turn away. 

Just at that moment, the phone on the desk made a warbling noise longer than a chirp but not quite a ring; Duo hadn't yet spent enough time in this corporate world to classify all the sounds made by the phones around here. Quatre, who seemed to know what it signified, strode to the desk and picked up the receiver with a curt, "Yes?" This was followed, after half a moment, by an equally annoyed-sounding, "Yes, send him up." 

Hearing this, Heero slipped out the door, undoubtedly to go meet the man and guide him to the right floor and room. 

Not wanting to look back at his angry friend, Duo continued to study anything around him besides Quatre -- though, really, studying the room was practically the same as studying Quatre himself. 

The level of organization in here was actually somewhat worrisome. Duo knew Quatre for a very neat person, but this seemed almost inhuman. Everything formed such a precise angle to everything else, and even the pens in the wire mesh cup seemed to have been leaned against each other in a pattern of similar sizes and colors. Things couldn't possibly remain this well arranged for more than a few minutes. Had Quatre _just_ set it all up like this before his friends came into the room? Was that an assertion of personal space or power because he felt threatened by this office invasion? Or had Quatre perhaps been taking out his anger on his desk, and disarrayed his possessions to the point where he'd felt the need to rigidly reorder them? 

The image of Quatre in here alone trying to cope with his mood by throwing his pens around might have been funny under normal circumstances, but at the moment was heartrending. Likewise, under normal circumstances, Duo would have been highly tempted to mess things up just to be an ass, but at the moment the thought of such practical joking only made him sad. He didn't feel guilty, though, when one little thought in the back of his head told him that, eventually, when this was all over, he really would have to come in here at some point and rearrange this desk just to see what Quatre would do. And then the door opened and Heero reentered with the exorcist. 

He was a harsh-looking man in a dark blue suit, but even the sheathed sword he unexpectedly carried -- something cool enough to demand attention -- couldn't hold Duo's gaze when the guy had such hilarious hair. After a mere couple of seconds looking at the four or five discrete bundles of bangs like spider legs over his forehead, Duo felt his lips twitching dangerously. Fortunately, the exorcist had immediately fixed his own gaze on Quatre beside the window, probably reading more from the energy rising off him than anyone else in the room could, and didn't see Duo's incorrigible mirth. 

"Quatre, Trowa, Duo, this is Hajime Saitou." Heero gestured to each of them in turn, and Duo had mostly managed to get his mouth under control by the time Hajime's eyes flicked across him. 

The exorcist nodded. "I'm pleased to meet you all. I already see how serious your problem is." And he stepped forward around the desk toward Quatre. Duo felt very strongly that, however polite his words, the man's movements were calculated to intimidate; he looked taller, somehow, as he stalked across the room, the sword in his hand more dangerous. 

Quatre seemed to bristle in response. In an almost sneering tone he remarked, "Jos Banks and a katana? Not what I expected from an exorcist." 

"Some do prefer skulls and black eyeliner," Hajime allowed, still courteous, "but I've never felt the need." 

His technique had been effective, assuming its desired effect had been to increase the amount of energy rising from Quatre. After halting perhaps a step too close to him and standing there for several silent moments, the exorcist began slowly walking back and forth looking critically at Quatre, much as Dorothy had yesterday. Eventually he lifted his sword and partially drew it, causing everyone in the room to stiffen and Quatre to become even more angry. Hajime glanced at the gleaming red blade, nodded, and put it away again. "Do you have any magical abilities yourself, Mr. Winner?" he asked at last. 

"Can't you tell?" Quatre snapped. 

"My guess," Hajime replied, "is that you're just a very organized and empathetic businessman who isn't normally so unhappy." 

'Unpleasant' might have been a better word, but it was a good guess in any case. Quatre certainly didn't look or sound happy as he answered, "Well, no, I have no magic. I'm the only one in the room _without_ magic, in fact." 

Hajime nodded, and the slight frown on his face was thoughtful. It seemed he was about to speak when Trowa cut him off: 

"He did destroy a powerful artifact for me recently." 

Giving Trowa a pensive look, Hajime asked, "Did you have any particular attachment to it?" 

"Not exactly. But I know someone -- multiple people, in fact -- who did." 

"Multiple people?" Hajime echoed, speaking Duo's curiosity aloud. 

"I just found out that the group that originally created the artifact still exists, and some of them were upset that I decided to destroy it." 

"But you weren't actually the one who--" Duo began in surprise, but cut himself off as an even more surprising thought struck him. "Was that who set your house on fire??" 

Trowa confirmed this with a nod, then added quietly, "Obviously they didn't realize I personally wasn't the one to destroy the artifact." 

"Is this that French cult?" Quatre asked in a dangerous tone. 

"The email was in English, but it's the same group." 

"And what did the email say?" Quatre still sounded as if he was collecting information on a potential target. 

"It was an apology for the arson." Trowa, meanwhile, sounded as if this was one of perhaps many things he'd feared about revealing this information. 

Turning so he could address all four of them, Hajime got them back on track before the topic of the email and the French cult could be further pursued. "A strong psychic connection between a person and an artifact can cause that artifact to behave like a living being in some ways," he explained. "Someone thinks of it as a friend, for example, and in response to that psychic energy it becomes one. Normally, a shade is created when emotion combines with the energy of death, and a sort of death energy can be created by something non-living if someone has personified the object strongly enough. And in this case, the emotion in question was probably more a potential than something someone actually felt -- if someone with a psychic connection to the artifact _would_ be angry at its destruction, it would be enough to cause a shade to form, turning the artifact's stored magic into an angry energy very similar to red shade, at the moment of the artifact's 'death.'" 

Duo thought he understood. "And that's why there's so much energy: because that was the artifact that--" Before he could finish, _"helped Trowa cast a curse that could last for eighty-seven years,"_ he amended his intention to something a little less revealing. "--was so super powerful." 

Hajime was nodding again. "It usually takes a fairly powerful artifact to lead to this condition. People rarely have an emotional connection to weaker ones -- and if they do, there may not be enough power in a weaker artifact to take hold of the emotion anyway. It's an unusual circumstance called artifact shade or artifact possession." He must have noticed dismay somewhere, for he went on with a quirk of thin lips, "It's unusual, but it can be dealt with like any other shade." 

A breath of relief and a letdown of tension went audibly and palpably through the room. 

"Unfortunately," Hajime went on, "because Mr. Winner here has completely internalized this energy, my technique--" he raised his sword-- "isn't going to help." 

"You _can't help_?" Quatre broke in, looking flabbergasted and irate. "What the hell was the point of all this, then?" 

"A diagnosis?" Hajime suggested, in a tone that would have been sarcastic with just the tiniest bit more inflection. "And the chance to make an appointment to get this dealt with. My partner shouldn't have any problem absorbing this energy." 

Quatre demanded, "Why didn't you bring your partner with you today?" 

"He has a rather busy schedule." Evidently Hajime was offhandedly familiar with this schedule, for he added, "I can bring him here on Friday evening, if five o'clock works for you again." 

"Friday?" Duo echoed in dismay. "Nothing earlier?" 

Quatre shot him an angry look. "How about everyone who has nothing to do with this goes home right now?" he suggested acidly. "I'm sure you can get in touch with Mr. Saitou for a boring lecture about possession some other time." 

The implication that Duo was not enough of a friend to have anything to do with Quatre's recovery stung a bit, but not nearly as much as it would have if Duo hadn't been well aware that it was the anger speaking. Heero took his hand and said softly, "Come on." Turning, Duo found his boyfriend's face grim but resigned. "Hajime," Heero went on, "thank you for coming. I'll talk to you on the phone." Though presumably, if Quatre could be convinced to agree to another appointment, payment wouldn't need to be arranged until after that had taken place. 

Hajime nodded at Heero, and the latter pulled Duo toward the door. Behind them, no one said anything more; perhaps Quatre was too angry, Trowa too reluctant, and Hajime aware that he'd said everything he needed to. Whatever the cause, the door closed on that stubborn silence, cutting Duo and Heero off from any further hope that might have been drawn from the scene.


	184. La Confrérie de la Lune Révéré Part 27

  


Looking like an irritated statue, Quatre had gone back to gazing out the window with his arms folded as Heero and Duo left the room; he did not say goodbye. Trowa tried to stop staring at him, since the situation would be little bettered by worry or frustration or the attraction he felt toward Quatre despite everything, and all these and more were excited by the mere sight of his boyfriend's rigid back. He sincerely hoped the precipitous dismissal of their friends hadn't been a precursor to Quatre dismissing everyone else from his presence as well and refusing to agree to see the other exorcist on Friday. 

Finally Quatre shifted, pulling his phone from his pocket in an abrupt movement. Still with his back to Trowa and Hajime, he started doing something with the device as if completely ignoring them. Trowa glanced at the exorcist, and found him waiting calmly with no sign of impatience. 

"Friday at five?" Quatre's words bounced off the glass in front of him and returned flatly into the room. 

"That's right," said Hajime. 

"And it won't be another complete waste of time?" 

"It won't." 

Slowly, revealing gradually the annoyed expression on his face, Quatre turned, still looking down at the object in his hand. "Fine," he said, his movements exaggerated as he wrapped up whatever he was doing -- probably making a calendar entry. Finished, he raised his eyes as he pocketed the phone, then gestured to the door. "Out." 

Though Trowa was unhappy, Hajime didn't seem to be bothered by this rude command, only turned without a word and moved to leave the office. As Quatre exited after and locked the door behind them, Trowa drew breath and courage to ask what he'd hoped to have a much better context for. The sharp look he received on saying Quatre's name almost changed his mind, but he forced himself to go on. "Tomorrow I have an appointment with a real estate agent at 10:00 to see some houses here in town. Do you want to come with me?" 

He should have known better than to bring this up when Quatre's delicate mood had already been so taxed, but he hadn't foreseen any other opportunity to bring it up at all. It was no real surprise that Quatre didn't jump to accede to the suggestion; it _shouldn't_ have been any surprise that his response was unnecessarily unkind. "Really, Trowa? You need me to take off work and come hold your hand while you do that? Haven't you bought a new house before?" 

Of course Trowa wasn't going to shout at his boyfriend, but this time it was even harder to restrain than usual, and he was definitely yelling mentally: _I don't need **help**; I need your **opinion** because I want you to move in with me eventually._

As Quatre looked into Trowa's face, his own changed subtly: its hardness seemed to lessen a trifle, while simultaneously, around the eyes, grew the hint of an expression more haunted than angry. Shortly, but in a less cutting tone than before, he said, "I'm sorry. I can't miss work." And he turned in a motion that seemed, to Trowa, to convey just a touch of that same desperate unhappiness beneath the wrath. Watching him walk away, Trowa took a deep, steadying breath -- inclined to wonder, as Duo had, whether there was really no possibility of getting the other exorcist over here sooner. 

"My partner has full-time work and college classes," Hajime explained as he came to Trowa's side. 

"You're a communicator as well?" Trowa wondered somewhat dully. 

"Primarily," Hajime replied. "That was only a guess, though. You, of course, are not projecting -- except for that shouting just now -- and I'm not trying to read you. But I did read a lot from him." He glanced after Trowa's disappearing boyfriend. 

Trowa didn't relish the sound of that 'You, of course,' but still inquired, "What did you read?" 

"That you're not doing any good by refusing to engage. He's running from everyone--" he gestured to the hallway, now empty, down which Quatre had gone-- "because he hates the way he behaves under the influence of this anger." Hajime's air of excessive politeness had dropped entirely away, leaving behind a tone both serious and somewhat dark. "What he really needs, besides an exorcism, is something to let that anger out on. That's what he wants, too, even if he doesn't want to want it. If you would stand up to him, give him that outlet, it would do him good." 

"You didn't." 

"Yes, but I walk a fine line between drawing out a client's anger and retaining that client. You have a much surer relationship with him." 

_Do I?_ Trowa wondered. If Quatre could jump so immediately to the conclusion that he needed _help_ looking at houses rather than a prospective sharer of a new home, how sure _was_ their relationship, really? 

Hajime sighed faintly, and now looked a little annoyed. "I really have no desire to say this, especially to you, but you need to stop tiptoeing around this Quatre of yours. He specifically wishes you would be more assertive." 

Not liking 'especially to you,' wondering with some chagrin just how much detail Hajime had picked out of Quatre's head, and a little agitated by this conversation as a whole, Trowa said nothing. Here was this man, who seemed to be a decently skilled communicator and had an air of decided competence, essentially giving the same advice Trowa been receiving from multiple sources lately in various forms: that he needed to be more proactive, more in charge of events. He needed to put aside backward concerns -- be they based in fear or pride or whatever else -- and do what should be done, say what should be said. 

If he'd been readier to admit to a lack of knowledge in certain areas, he could have made inquiries about Quatre's condition much earlier than he had. If he'd been able to disclose that he'd decided to destroy his primary source of power, he could have given an appropriate amount of detail in those emails and perhaps gotten detailed answers much sooner. If he'd been willing to accept the fact, unlikely to change any time soon, that he was a celebrity, he might have reached out to people that were ready to help him, and Heero would not have had to be the first, after almost two weeks, to get in touch with an exorcist. 

And perhaps if his relationship with Quatre wasn't as sure as he would like, that was because he had done little to make it so. Quatre had been the proactive one all along, and now, when Quatre needed help and support, what was Trowa doing for him? Cowering and, as Hajime said, refusing to engage. 

A quiet, almost tired determination filled him. It was a sort of epiphanous resolution, though he couldn't have put it into words. And where to start? Deciding to be more proactive, more assertive, was all well and good, but it wasn't really something he could just _do_. 

"Mr. Barton--" 

That was where to start. With the man that hadn't been told his full name but was obviously familiar with it anyway. "You know who I am," Trowa interrupted. 

"Of course." 

Trowa gave a sigh, but it was a much fainter sigh than it would have been if he hadn't just resolved whatever he'd resolved. So he had fans. Sometimes they were annoying, but they weren't going away, and it was really about time to learn to deal with that. They could, after all, sometimes be useful as well. He took a deep breath and turned toward Hajime. "Communion first and necrovisua second?" 

The man nodded. 

"I'm not much of a communicator, and not necrovisual at all." 

"Otherwise you could have solved this problem yourself," Hajime agreed. 

"Right now is obviously not the best time, but at some point in the future I could use a necrovisual consultant for the book I'm writing." 

Hajime looked interested. "A book about magic from Trowa Barton," he mused. "That may change magical history." 

This time Trowa worked to restrain his sigh. 

Clearly noticing this reaction, Hajime gave a crooked smile that didn't appear very sympathetic. His words, however, were somewhat comforting: "If it's any consolation, I've only ever heard of you in the U.S. -- your fame hadn't spread to Japan the last time I was there." And when Trowa mutely shook his head he added, "I'll help with your book in any way I can." 

Trowa nodded his thanks. Technically he could have waited until Friday to bring this up, but it had felt more proactive -- and thus more affirming of his resolution -- to ask here and now. Besides, he might (indeed, hoped he would) be very distracted by a healed Quatre on Friday. 

He wanted to go home, and it was like a punch to the gut remembering that he didn't have one. In an effort at least to get out of here, however, he pulled out his cell phone, relieved that he'd brought it with him. Once in his pocket, it often stayed there until he changed his pants, which, with magical cleaning available to him, sometimes didn't happen for days -- but that was only if he remembered to put it there in the first place. It would have been rather inconvenient at the moment to hunt through this Winner Plastics building for something to write on. "Phone number?" 

Hajime told him, and Trowa sent him a quick text so the exorcist would have his as well. 

"I'm jumping out of here," he said when that was done. "Can you find your way down all right?" 

"I should be fine." There was a touch of sarcasm in this response to the suggestion that Hajime might not be able to locate the exit, but his tone was entirely sincere as he added, "It was an honor to meet you." 

Trowa nodded again, getting ready to cast his teleportation spell, and said, "I'll see you on Friday."


	185. La Confrérie de la Lune Révéré Part 28

  


Heero was definitely getting the hang of dealing with a room full of thoughts as he went about his work each day, adjusting to the specific sound or flavor of each person's projected reflections, and could complete his own tasks without too much distraction most of the time. Occasionally someone would get boisterous or interesting enough that it became harder to ignore, but he was gradually learning to deal with that too. He had to admit to some pride in this; for having literally no training, and no great freedom to pursue any right now, he felt he was doing very well. 

When, just after 10:00, his efforts were interrupted by the silly-sounding laughter Duo had for some reason set as his incoming text alert, Heero reached for his phone with half a sigh and half a laugh of his own, and found Trowa wondering, _Do you think Quatre would like living in High Palms?_

It seemed a somewhat odd message, but Heero nevertheless took a mental walk into the neighborhood in question. Anything inside the city that lacked four storeys and five acres would be a step down for Quatre, but High Palms was quite a nice area -- though not extensively familiar with it, Heero had been there occasionally. _He might_, he replied. _Looking at houses?_ Trowa, clearly very uncomfortable in his current displacement, had mentioned that he intended to do so sometime soon, but hadn't given Heero a specific time and date. 

_Yes_, came the reply. _I considered Peregrine, but I think Quatre would prefer something more established._

This Heero believed to be accurate. Quatre would love to have neighbors, which wasn't an immediate guarantee in a brand-new development like Peregrine. _You're probably right._

_I also considered the Old Glazebrook Avenue area_, was Trowa's next comment. _It seems to have a lot of houses similar to Quatre's, but it's not nearly as active a sale market, and the chances of finding something suitable for sale right away seem lower._

Trowa did love his research. It couldn't have been anything but extremely boring to look into the qualities of different neighborhoods in a new town, and only served to prove more definitely just how much he wanted out of Heero's apartment. If he weren't so desperate and uncomfortable, he could wait to look at houses until Quatre could come with him, and wouldn't be bothering Heero with his least favorite communication medium. 

_Quatre might prefer a change anyway,_ Heero texted back. 

_Do you think so?_ came the quick reply. 

Heero smiled wryly. This (and possibly the entire affair) was insecurity, not ignorance. Of course Heero knew Quatre better than Trowa did, simply from lengthier experience, but that didn't mean Trowa couldn't figure out any or all of this stuff on his own. But before Heero could comment on this, assuming he intended to, another message arrived saying, _My confidence in my expertise is overwhelming, I know._

Current events, it was true, couldn't be doing much for Trowa's confidence. That he could possibly receive a great boost from a text conversation with Heero, the latter doubted. Surely Quatre had acquainted Trowa at some point with Heero's distaste for text messaging? Not that there was any other way for Trowa to ask questions at the moment, since Heero wouldn't have sat on a call with him while he wandered around houses... but did he really need to be asking these questions at all? Heero supposed he did. 

_Quatre might like a change,_ he reiterated at last. _He likes his living situation, but going to a new home that's very similar might be disappointing._

_Sensible,_ Trowa replied. _Thank you._

It was perhaps half an hour before Heero heard from his friend again. _I know Quatre has only the one car, but how likely do you think it is that he'll want a second or a third?_

This, Heero judged, was a garage-size question. _Two maybe,_ he wrote back, _but probably not three._

_Yes, probably_, Trowa replied. _Do you think Quatre would mind stairs up from the garage to the kitchen?_

Heero gave this some consideration, but only very briefly, before answering, _No._ Having to carry groceries up a flight of stairs would drive _him_ crazy after no great while, but Quatre (as long as he wasn't magically angry) might not even notice. And honestly Heero was a little tired of this conversation. 

That was unfortunate, because it wasn't over. Trowa's next query was, _What kind of storage capacity do you think Quatre needs? I've seen his attic, of course, but how much of that tendency was his family and how much was him?_

_Not none but not big,_ Heero typed out with a sigh. _He keeps stuff, but organizes well._

_Of course,_ Trowa acknowledged. 

Heero had by now silenced his phone, seeing that text messaging was the order of at least the next little while if not the whole day. If he needed to make any phone calls -- and at the moment it seemed like he might after not too long -- Trowa would have to wait a bit on whatever answer he needed next. 

_A nice kitchen probably won't do us any good,_ Trowa remarked -- and that wasn't even a request for advice; it was just a comment. 

Heero tried to keep his annoyance down as he composed and sent his reply. Then he realized he'd sent, _You need one anyway for when I come cok for you guys,_ and grumbled inarticulately under his breath as he sent a correction. This was only one of many reasons he hated texting: you got going so fast, you didn't double-check what you'd written, and made stupid mistakes. 

He was just about finished looking over yesterday's transactions when the next comment came: _Quatre will need a separate room for music, I think._ Heero didn't feel the need to respond to this fairly definitive statement, but then Trowa asked, _Do you think he'd want a closed room, like a bedroom, for that, or something more open, like a living room?_

This should really be obvious upon viewing the spaces in question, shouldn't it? Where a huge piano would fit, surely, would immediately solve the problem. But his response was, _Aren't you a musician too? Can't you tell what would be best?_

_I haven't played for years,_ Trowa answered, _but you may be right._

Again some time passed in relative peace, but Heero didn't fool himself into thinking he'd been let off. So he was ready when Trowa texted, _Quatre will obviously want spare rooms._

_Obviously._

_Separate dining room? He has one now._

_Get a big kitchen you can put a table in and then a separate dining room too._ After a moment's thought, despite not wanting to set a precedent of initiating a message rather than just responding, Heero added, _Get some kind of rec room for parties._ Duo would certainly like the sound of that; he and Quatre could conspire together about social gatherings. 

If this all worked, it would actually be fairly interesting to have Quatre inside town rather than on its borders. Quatre had lived in that mansion out there for as long as Heero had known him, and, because of its distance from everything convenient in the city, had visited Heero's home far more often than Heero had visited him. 

_Big bathroom,_ was probably a specific comment on the house Trowa was currently looking at. 

_Big bathroom good for Quatre._ Heero considered this appropriate diction for answering the message in question. 

_Is bathtub or shower more important?_

Only because Heero had known Quatre for ten years was he able to answer, _Both. One of those jacuzzi tubs, if possible._

_Good. OK._

Perhaps ten minutes later came, _Do you think Quatre will want another dog after Cairo dies?_

_Probably. Get a big yard with good fences._

That Trowa was so single-mindedly dedicated to finding a perfect habitat for his boyfriend was sweet, but that very boyfriend would surely want Trowa to consider his own preferences as well. Did _Trowa_ plan on any pets? What did _Trowa_ want in a back yard? Of course Trowa might be simply keeping his own preferences in his own head as unnecessary to mention to Heero, but this entire process still seemed pathetically lopsided. The worst was yet to come, though. 

_Do you think Quatre will ever want children?_

Heero sat back and put a hand over his face. Of course he understood all the aspects of the situation that made him the ideal candidate for an answer to this question at the moment, but it felt so... inappropriate. This was something that, if Trowa did not know already, should be discussed with Quatre himself -- a personal part of their future on which Heero should not even be called to give an opinion. But it was also a point worth considering in relation to a house that Quatre might one day inhabit, and therefore something Trowa needed to think about today when Quatre was in no state to discuss it. 

Still, only after he'd made the phone call he'd been anticipating -- stealing time to collect himself and consider the matter -- did Heero finally reply, _No, I don't think so._ And if Trowa made some protest against the idea on the basis that Quatre was very attached to his nieces and nephews, Heero would turn his phone off rather than argue the point. But quite a few more minutes passed with no further message, and when another came it was on a different topic: 

_Does a big deck work as a rec room?_

_Probably works for parties, but you still need a place for a TV._ Naturally Trowa, whom Duo had once called a 'godless heathen' for the lack of TV in his life, would not have thought of that; perhaps it was, after all, good for him to be consulting someone. Quatre would have been optimal, of course, but Heero was just about resigned to how things had to be. 

Eventually, after another string of questions that mostly began with 'Would Quatre,' Heero felt compelled to ask something he'd been wondering all along: _Does Quatre know about all this?_ What he meant was, _Does your boyfriend have any idea you want him to move in with you and are tailoring your entire house-buying process to his rather than your needs and desires?_ Whether or not Trowa would interpret his short question as such, Heero couldn't be sure. 

_No,_ was the answer. _I may be setting myself up for serious disappointment._

_I don't think so._ One of the few benefits to this method of holding a discussion was the relative smoothness with which some statements that might otherwise be a little awkward could be delivered. _As soon as he's cured._

_Thank you,_ sent Trowa. 

_You should wait,_ Heero advised. _It's only till Friday._

_I need to get out of your apartment,_ Trowa replied. _I need to get things done._

Heero thought this another odd statement, and that it wasn't likely Trowa, even if he made a decision on a house, would be out of the apartment any time soon, but he wasn't going to press the issue. 

Finally lunch time approached. Heero wasn't sure how long Trowa planned on continuing to look at houses and ask him questions -- surely whatever agent was showing him around would tire eventually, even if Trowa didn't -- but he had a feeling his lunch hour would not be free of text messaging. Fortunately, Duo was sure to be extremely interested, and that would stave off some of Heero's annoyance. 

Beyond that, they'd been eating lunch out in the car now that Dorothy had returned, so at least Heero could deal with the conversation in freedom from swirling uncontrolled thoughts about what needed to get done after lunch and excitement about going to see _Machete_ tomorrow and plans for this Christmas and how much homework she had and curiosity whether humpback whales were migratory and whether he would be able to make rent next month (actually, Heero would want to figure out who that last one was and be sure the wonderer was going to be all right), and all the rest of it. 

It was funny what he'd grown accustomed to since that day he'd picked Duo up from the gutter outside this very building, and since the twenty-second of August in particular; this business of dealing with people's thoughts, even when he had a difficult time with it, had come to seem perfectly run-of-the-mill, and the situations of Trowa and Quatre -- arson and anger and possession -- weren't much farther from feeling like fairly normal day-to-day occurrences in the lives of the magical. Heero couldn't quite decide whether that was reassuring or troublesome, but it was what it was. He went to lunch.


	186. La Confrérie de la Lune Révéré Part 29

When Trowa jumped to Quatre's office on Friday evening, he considered it a bad sign to find the room dark and empty. Where was everyone? Most importantly, where was Quatre? Trowa desperately hoped his boyfriend hadn't decided he didn't want to participate in this evening's activities and gone home early. 

A glance through the window into the hall showed the group he was joining, sans Quatre, just outside. When Trowa opened the door to step out of the office, Heero and Duo both turned toward him with a start. 

"Where's Quatre?" Duo demanded at once. 

"I don't know," Trowa replied, closing the door behind him. "Have you seen him today?" 

"No," Heero said. 

Worried but deciding he'd better get the necessary introductions out of the way, Trowa turned his attention to the other two people present. The first was Hajime, and the second, presumably, his partner. Quatre had remarked on Tuesday that Hajime's appearance was not what he'd expected of an exorcist, and Trowa felt a little guilty for his immediate corresponding thought now that this newcomer did not look at all as _he_ would expect. There was no reason in the world an exorcist, especially one that might not be quite out of his teens, shouldn't have dozens of earrings and alarmingly spiky hair with a neon blue sheen, but Trowa was... old. And a recluse. Perhaps 'stodgy' might be a good word in some contexts. 

Hajime gave a gesture that seemed, to Trowa, studiedly casual. "Sano," he said to his younger and less professional-looking partner, "this is Trowa Barton." 

Sano's gaze snapped to Trowa and both his pierced eyebrows rose. "_The_ Trowa Barton?" He glanced back to Hajime as if to check whether he was joking. "I mean... really?" 

"That's right," Trowa said wearily, extending a hand. 

"Wow." Sano shook almost reluctantly. "I have a friend who would go crazy if he knew." Over his shoulder he accused, "You didn't tell me we were meeting _him_." 

Hajime gave a self-satisfied smirk. 

With the formalities out of the way, Trowa started looking around again, wondering where Quatre was. "You haven't seen him at all today?" he said to Heero. 

"That does sometimes happen," Heero replied at a murmur. 

"He could show up any time," Duo said soothingly. 

"I haven't seen him since Tuesday." Technically Trowa wasn't whining, but there was some of that quality, ephemerally, to his statement. Trying to pull himself together and not worry too excessively, he gave his head a firm little shake. "But you're right; he could be here any time. He might be at the other office today." Quatre probably would have mentioned that, if it had been the case, when he'd made the appointment, but it was a good explanation for now. 

Heero looked pensive, and Trowa moved toward him in the hope that he might be able to confirm the guess. At the same moment, Duo went in the other direction and addressed the young exorcist Sano: "So the Raiders!" 

"Yeah!" replied Sano with some enthusiasm. "I should have worn this shirt yesterday for the last pre-season, but I didn't actually have time to watch most of the game." 

"Boller didn't look too bad," said Duo. 

"Well, seven of thirteen isn't _spectacular_," Sano allowed, "but at least he didn't throw any interceptions." 

Trowa stopped listening. 

"Quatre _might_ have been downtown today," Heero said, quiet and uncertain. 

Shaking aside an almost superstitious reluctance to mention it, Trowa wondered, "Do you think he decided not to go through with this?" 

"It's possible." With a sigh Heero added, "Just when this all could have been over..." 

"Counterproductive decisions are not unusual for people in his situation." Hajime, apparently also disinterested in the football conversation he'd previously been standing beside, had joined them. "He seemed to be in some denial on Tuesday, and that does sometimes progress to outright defiance of logic." 

With a frown, Heero nodded. 

"But it's only ten minutes after five," the exorcist went on. "Give him time." 

Silence fell among the three of them, and gradually they all turned toward the other, far more animated discussion. It still wasn't even a little interesting, however, and Quatre continued not to show up, so Trowa grew increasingly uncomfortable. Finally, just for something to say, he asked quietly, "What are your partner's skills?" 

"Getting angry," replied Hajime easily. "Wasting time. Not putting DVD's back in their cases when he's done watching them." 

"I heard that," Sano growled over his shoulder. Evidently, though, it wasn't enough to drag him from his conversation with Duo. 

Heero had pulled out his phone and was making a call, and Trowa kept an anxious eye on him as Hajime spoke again. "Sano is extremely good at absorbing and then dealing with red shade. He's very useful for cases where someone has internalized it, like this situation. I think he's a natural, though." 

Normally this would have been quite interesting, since naturals were rare and Trowa would have liked to ask a few questions -- but just as Hajime made the statement, Heero lowered his phone from his ear. 

"You think I'm a what, now?" Sano demanded. And apparently this one _was_ enough to drag him from his conversation with Duo, for he turned rapidly toward Hajime. "Are you serious?" 

Trowa drew nearer to Heero, who murmured, "Straight to voicemail." 

"You actually think I'm a natural?" Sano was demanding, stalking over to his partner. "Since when?" 

"Since we met," Hajime replied. 

"And why is this the first time I'm hearing about it?" 

Duo appeared at Trowa's side. "Nothing from Quatre still?" 

Trowa shook his head. "I wish I could jump to him. Even if he's too angry to be here right now, I could take the exorcism to him." He tilted his head toward the exorcists, one of whom was actively berating the other for never having related to him an apparently long-standing theory about his magical talents. 

"He might change his mind..." Duo suggested. "He might still show up." 

Though Trowa doubted this, he thought they should give it a bit longer, just in case. Heero was texting now, his expression suggesting that he too had little hope. Meanwhile, Hajime seemed to be endeavoring to bring an end to the conversation with his partner that was threatening to become rather unprofessional. 

"This is so stupid," Duo complained. "Why does he have to be so angry _today_ of all days that he won't show up right when we've got the solution here?" 

"Maybe there's another reason," Heero murmured. "I'm going to call his house." 

Sano had turned his back on Hajime, looking irritated, and Duo wandered over to talk to him again while Hajime approached Trowa. Heero stepped aside far enough not to involve his phone call in whatever would take place nearby, and Trowa couldn't help thinking with some faint amusement that this continually rearranging group must appear somewhat funny to anyone watching. He hadn't noticed anyone walk by in this hallway outside Quatre's office since he'd arrived, but if they had, some curiosity must have been the result. 

"Did you hear about Russell and his drugs?" Duo said. 

"How is your divination?" Hajime wondered as he approached Trowa. 

"Darryl, it's Heero. Do you know if Quatre's home?" 

Duo's reinstated NFL conversation was easier to ignore than Heero's call to Quatre's housekeeper, but with an effort Trowa answered Hajime's question. "I'm an expert on the theory..." 

Hajime nodded with a slight smirk at the somewhat facetious statement. "And all I can tell you is that, on Tuesday, he was sincere when he promised to come today." 

"No luck," Heero said in quiet frustration, lowering his phone. 

Under other circumstances, Trowa might have let it go at that; but with what he'd resolved on Tuesday, he couldn't. He pulled out his own cell phone in order to see if his boyfriend would be more inclined to answer a call from him than one from Heero. Unfortunately, besides the continued football talk from off to his left (at least he thought they were still discussing football; he couldn't in any way be sure), all he heard was Quatre's voicemail message. The light, friendly tone of the recording, often so sweet and comforting, was downright depressing under these circumstances. 

When Heero observed that Trowa had been as successful as he had, he said, "It's 5:30. Do we want to keep waiting around here?" 

Hajime looked at his watch. "As your friend pointed out, it's not impossible that Mr. Winner will change his mind and want to keep the appointment. In case that happens, Sano and I should still be accessible for a while. But it might be a good idea to wait outside the building." 

"It looks a little weird for us all to be standing here," Heero agreed. Then he glanced toward Duo and added, as if struck by a thought, "Maybe we should all go get dinner somewhere close." 

Trowa would rather wait as near as possible to the place Quatre had promised to be, but it wasn't his building to be paranoid about strangers hanging around in. And his friends were probably hungry; it looked as if Heero had picked the idea out of Duo's head, in fact. So he nodded at the suggestion. 

Hajime nodded too, seeming just as reluctant as Trowa but perhaps, like Heero, reacting to some idea not his own. "We passed a Chili's on the way here," he said. 

Now Heero shook his head. "There's a seafood place the other direction." He gestured. "It's closer." 

Trowa, who was far from an expert on local restaurants, accepted this decision without a word. He watched as Hajime -- rather rudely, he thought -- broke into Sano's conversation with an announcement that they were going to dinner and began walking away down the hall. Sano followed with some apparent pleasure at the news mingled with some annoyance, which he expressed as he prodded Hajime's suit-coated back: "I still can't believe you never told _me_ you think I'm a natural." 

"I'll buy you some seafood, and you'll get over it," Hajime replied. 

"Is this the place with the amazing catfish?" Duo asked Heero as they too set off down the hall. As Heero somewhat morosely confirmed this, Duo threw a glance back toward Quatre's office. The look turned to one of pity as it crossed Trowa, demonstrating that he, like Heero, wasn't entirely distracted from the real concern of the evening even by the prospect of amazing catfish. 

With a sigh, Trowa brought up the rear.


	187. La Confrérie de la Lune Révéré Part 30

  


Heero was frustrated. Not infrequently lately had this been the case, but this evening's combination of factors was novel. He honestly hadn't thought that, even after all the effort it had taken to get his friend to agree to see an exorcist and then agree to make a second appointment, Quatre wouldn't keep that appointment. Quatre _excelled_ at keeping appointments, and was typically meticulous about polite and early notice if he needed to cancel. Disregarding a scheduled event _and_ failing to notify the other people involved showed that he'd _really_ gotten bad. He must be extremely unhappy, and of course this all meant he needed the service he was currently denying more than ever. If only Heero could get hold of him! 

Duo was still eagerly talking football with the punk exorcist. Because Heero largely ignored football, Duo had been mostly on his own in the pursuit of it as the season got started, and now was very pleased at the coincidence of this person he was already spending the evening with being a fellow fan -- and even a fan of the correct team. When or why Duo, who'd lived in nearly every state in the country, had picked up the (by all accounts rather pathetic) Oakland Raiders to support, Heero didn't know, but he did know how annoyed Duo got (at least facetiously) seeing all the San Francisco fans around here. 

Trowa and Hajime had struck up a discussion about necrovisual magic. Heero would have listened had their topic been more closely related to Quatre's condition, but in fact Hajime was describing different colors of shades and how they were dealt with, while Trowa paid close attention and asked the occasional question. Presumably he was using the topic to distract himself, and more power to him... Heero, however, not a nerd about all things magical, could not be distracted in the same manner from his worry about his best friend. 

They'd been a few among many coming to the restaurant at just before 6:00 on a Friday evening, so the room around them was aurally noisy as well as swirling with thought. No reason existed for a single person in here besides their party to care about Quatre Winner and whether he was angry or sad or losing control, and whether the appointment he hadn't shown up for could have fixed all of that; and reasons were equally scarce for Heero to care about anyone's hopes to get laid tonight after this date or the endless indecision two tables away about what to order or the dull frustration moving through the room in criss-crossing paths in the form of the waitstaff. 

Unfortunately, there was also no way for him to escape these thoughts he didn't care about and that didn't care about him or his concerns. As normal as it all seemed, he was beginning to find it all more than a little idiotic as well -- frustratingly mundane, irrelevant, and unavoidable. 

Meanwhile, at his own table, 

Duo continued to chat with Sano as if they'd been friends for ages, and that, at least, was interesting (and perhaps just a tiny bit jealousy-inducing) to observe. Duo's ability to engage people seemed to border on magic in itself, and the two would undoubtedly exchange phone numbers (technically Duo was still giving out Heero's number at this point) before they parted this evening. 

Duo was developing some serious curiosity about the two exorcists -- specifically, apparently based on the way Sano referred to Hajime in conversation, about their relationship. In Duo's opinion, Sano's talk could lead anyone to believe the two were romantic, but the same impression did not come from Hajime. Heero shared none of this curiosity, but would still like to satisfy Duo on the point, so he concentrated on picking up anything he could from either of the two men. 

This, however, was a mostly useless endeavor. Hajime projected nothing at all -- undoubtedly too practiced at that sort of thing -- and as for Sano... Heero didn't quite know how to describe it, but it felt as if Sano had a noisy mind that would normally burst out (just like Duo's and many of the people's in this room), but was deliberately blocking somehow. It only went to reiterate how much Heero had to learn. 

_You're very new at this, aren't you?_ This unexpected mental remark didn't cause even a slight start; it felt too natural, and too clearly came from someone close by. In fact it was more obviously Hajime even than if he'd been speaking aloud, as his psychic voice carried a stronger sense of him than his physical one. Heero glanced at the man, and found him still talking to Trowa about ghosts and things. 

Heero nodded without a word in response to the comment, not entirely sure how to reply in kind. 

_Just give it a try,_ Hajime urged, sounding a little impatient. 

The reason for this impatience became evident when Heero obeyed the injunction, as it proved to be incredibly easy. The thought, _All right, I'm trying,_ went out effortlessly; it was even easier than verbal speech. 

_When did your communication powers wake up?_

_Two weeks ago,_ Heero replied. _Or at least that's when I started noticing things._

_And you're reading everyone around you already?_

_I pushed for that,_ Heero admitted. _I wouldn't have if I'd realized how distracting it would be. _

_Why?_ Hajime sounded amused. 

_Duo had a question I was trying to find the answer to._ Heero wondered whether the smoothness of this conversation with a near-complete stranger was due to the aforementioned ease of the mental communication technique, or the fact that the aforementioned near-complete stranger seemed to know exactly what Heero was going through. In any case, Heero was far less reluctant to answer this man's questions than he would have expected. 

_Is that a habit of yours?_ Perhaps Hajime had noticed Heero's response to Duo's current curiosity just a minute ago. Given that that curiosity had to do with Hajime's personal life, this idea was a little embarrassing, and Heero tried to change the subject: 

_How are you having two conversations at once?_

Practice, Hajime replied. He still sounded amused, and again Heero wondered how much of his thoughts the exorcist -- who was clearly a communicator in addition to that -- was picking up. After a moment, though, Hajime added somewhat grudgingly, _If you pay attention to my other conversation, you'll notice I've slowed down. Not many people are good enough to keep up two **perfect** conversations at once._

Heero was more than a little interested, and deliberately came up with something else to ask so as to observe Hajime's multi-tasking abilities. _If you are one, maybe you know if there's a way for a communicator to help someone else with their nightmares?_

_Nightmares like someone might have after an 87-year curse?_

Trying not to feel startled, Heero attempted to remember what had been said in Hajime's presence -- and what thoughts he'd been able to pick up during that time -- that might have revealed this. 

_It was on Tuesday,_ Hajime supplied. _That Duo of yours has a completely unguarded head._

_Yes, I know._ The faint regret at the complications this fact had already caused in Heero's relationship with Duo must have sounded in his mental agreement, for Hajime's next statement had that same touch of amusement as before: 

_Even people with no communicative talent can be trained to keep from projecting. There's a website that offers a lot of tips about various communication techniques; it's not nearly as useful a resource as working with another communicator, and you'll have to search for the answer to your nightmare question yourself, but it might still be useful. I'll text you the address._

_Thank you._

A wordless feeling of professional condescension -- in the friendliest sense; it was a sort of 'you're welcome' -- came in reply. 

Heero had partially observed Hajime's other conversation during all of this, and noted that he had indeed slowed down. Though Trowa had probably noticed his companion paying attention to more than just him -- Trowa probably knew better than Heero did what Hajime's magical talents were -- he hadn't given any indication of being bothered by it. The whole thing was very impressive. 

Heero wondered how long it would take him to master something like that. Granted, being able to carry out two conversations at once was not exactly a skill he greatly coveted, but that level of expertise was yet something he was interested in having. He also wondered, suddenly, how long it would have taken his communicative powers to awaken properly if Quatre's emergency hadn't prompted that to happen. He also also wondered... _Why can't I get at thoughts that aren't on the surface? I assume I'll be able to do that._

_It comes with time and practice. The website will help._

_But working with an actual communicator would help more._

_Yes. If you know one, and you and he or she both have time for that._

Not caring that Hajime wasn't looking in his direction but assuming that the feeling of his agreement would carry, Heero nodded again. Just as he'd thought, active training with a real communicator was something he would want to line up along with therapy for Duo after this Quatre business was over with. And _when_ would this Quatre business be over with? Not tonight, it seemed. 

Heero continued talking silently to Hajime off and on, ate some halibut in peach sauce he thought he must try to find a recipe to imitate at some point, watched Duo winning a new friend and Trowa appearing more and more unhappy as time passed, and worried about Quatre. When they'd been at the restaurant for nearly ninety minutes and it was two hours since when Quatre had promised to meet them, and not one of them had heard from him that evening, Heero gave up. Another look at Trowa's face showed that _he_ had done so long before. 

"Last time he did this," Heero tried to reassure Trowa in a low voice, "he showed up at my apartment the next day." 

"Only because it was my birthday." Trowa, staring down into a soda cup that currently contained only ice, clearly wasn't reassured; honestly, Heero wasn't either, but what more could he offer? 

"Call me as soon as you manage to arrange something with him," Hajime said. "Assuming Mr. Winner will actually be there, Sano can call off work if he has to." 

"Making plans over my head again?" Sano wondered. The scowl he gave Hajime was brief, however, as he turned an expression toward Trowa that was merely serious. "I actually can call off work, though. I can't really skip class, but I can probably be somewhere within a few hours whenever." 

Heero got the feeling that having met _The_ Trowa Barton was what had rendered Sano amenable to risking whatever other job he had in order to be somewhere within a few hours whenever. Trowa's celebrity was definitely good for something, then. 

Trowa appeared to think so too, for he thanked the exorcists gravely. Then, as if this discussion had been about immediate practicalities rather than the uncertain future, everyone started to get up to leave the restaurant. The bill had already been split between the two communicators at the table, so all there was left for Heero to do was grab a last sip of his drink and take charge of Trowa's boxed leftovers in addition to his own, since Trowa would undoubtedly forget his. 

Out in the parking lot, the anticipated phone number exchange, along with a few parting thoughts about next year's draft, took place between Duo and Sano before the exorcists headed off in the direction of Hajime's car and the other three turned toward Heero's. Before Sano was two steps away he was already saying, "So you really think I'm a natural?" And Heero realized that this topic had not been closed, only deferred until Sano and Hajime were alone. 

Any little echo of Duo's curiosity about the two that might have arisen in Heero, however, was quashed when he looked at Trowa, for the latter's dejection seemed to have reached a sort of peak. He'd stopped walking and was glancing around the parking lot as if to check whether anyone was looking at them. "I'm going to... go take a walk," he said in a low, helpless tone. "I'll come back to your apartment later and try some divinations." 

"You _should_ come back and get some sleep," Heero said, but his admonishment probably wasn't audible over Duo's sound of pity as he hugged Trowa impetuously. And as soon as Duo withdrew, Trowa spoke a spell and was gone. 

With a shake of head at the rueful expression on Duo's face as he stared at the place their friend had been, Heero adjusted the Styrofoam boxes in his arm and said, "Let's go home."


	188. La Confrérie de la Lune Révéré Part 31

  


Duo felt he'd just barely closed his eyes when he was startled awake by a ringing phone. In fact, looking at the clock in some confusion, he observed that it _hadn't_ actually been all that long since the latest nightmare had awakened both him and Heero and they'd struggled back to sleep after a rather incoherent scene. 

In a clumsy movement Heero sat up, fighting a blanket that wasn't really very much in his way and grumbling slurredly about its being before eight and who could possibly be calling so early on a Saturday morning? Duo sat up as well, and pressed himself against Heero with his head on Heero's shoulder and his arms around him to retain the warmth of lying in bed. Then he denied his inclination to laugh at the Neanderthal manner in which Heero put the phone to his ear and said, "Hllo?" 

So close was Duo in this position that he could hear most of the other end of the conversation with little trouble. "Heero, I'm sorry to call you so early on a Saturday. This is Bernard Winner. I was just wondering if you've heard from Quatre lately." 

Heero woke up quickly. "No, I haven't seen him since..." He paused to think. "Wednesday." 

"And no calls or emails?" Mr. Winner persisted. 

"No, I haven't heard from him at all." 

"Do you know what's been wrong with him lately?" 

Heero hesitated before answering. "I know he's been pretty angry," he hedged. 

Mr. Winner snorted. "That's an understatement." 

"It's been... causing some tension," Heero added carefully. 

"He's been very unpleasant at home for a while... His mother and I have been worried about him... You don't think that Trowa has anything to do with it, do you?" 

Duo stiffened, and pressed even closer. 

"No," Heero said with immediate, purposeful surety. "No, Trowa's been very worried about him too. He's been trying to figure out what's going on." 

"All right..." 

"Trowa's staying with me right now," Heero pursued. "I have to see how unhappy he is about this every day." 

"All right," said Mr. Winner again, sounding a little more convinced this time. 

Silently, Duo kissed Heero on the cheek. 

"The reason I called," Mr. Winner went on, "is that I woke up to an email this morning from Quatre that... just doesn't seem like him." 

Heero and Duo waited in tense silence. 

"He says he's taking a vacation, but not where he's going or for how long." 

"You got this this morning?" wondered the startled Heero. 

"It came in the middle of the night." 

"He was supposed to meet us last night -- yesterday after work -- and he never showed up or even called." 

"I haven't actually seen him since Wednesday either; his car hasn't even been at the house." 

"Wednesday," repeated Heero in some dismay. "And his car hasn't been home?" His voice sank to a murmur. "Where has he been? Not with Trowa, since he's been here... And now he's 'taking a vacation?'" 

"I feel like something strange is going on," Mr. Winner admitted. "I know he's been upset lately, but this email... it just didn't seem like him. Why would he email in the middle of the night, from his phone, instead of just telling us? He's a responsible manager who would never abandon his work with no notice like that." 

Duo thought that, under the circumstances, Quatre might, but he couldn't think of any way to explain this to Quatre's father that would make sense and be at all convincing. 

"And an email from his cell phone could have been sent from anywhere... from anyone." 

"You think someone else has his phone?" said Heero in some surprise. 

"I don't know. I'm very worried. With this coming on top of everything that's been happening with him lately, I'm afraid something is seriously wrong." 

Something was seriously wrong. And it could have been fixed last night if Quatre hadn't disappeared. But what could be said to this unfortunate man? Besides a helpless-sounding, "Yeah..." what was there to offer? 

"Has he gotten into some kind of drug?" Mr. Winner sounded somewhat desperate. 

Immediately Heero replied, "No, I don't think so." A suggestion of drugs might actually have been a good excuse for Quatre's behavior, but also might have caused more problems, in the long run, than it solved. 

"Then what's going on? Drugs were the last idea I had that made sense!" 

"I wish I knew." 

"I'm going to call the police." 

Duo was impressed with Heero's calm as he replied, "Do you think there's enough information for the police to care?" 

"None of his friends or family have seen him for three days, and all I have is an email that doesn't sound like he wrote it that could have come from anywhere. And that's after he's been acting strangely for two weeks. I want someone to look into this." 

Duo had to admit that Mr. Winner had a point. Wherever Quatre had gone and whatever he was up to, it probably related back to his possession and mood, but not knowing about those conditions might lead anyone to think he'd developed an addiction or perhaps been abducted. Once again, without explaining the entire situation, there was no way to stop Mr. Winner calling the police -- and even an explanation would only help if Mr. Winner believed it. If talking to the police made him feel better while they waited for Quatre to drag himself out of whatever angry hole he'd hidden in, that was all for the good -- however inconvenient it might prove to some of the people involved. 

"OK," was presumably the only thing Heero could say. But he did add, "We're really worried about him; if you hear anything, can you let me know?" 

"If you'll agree to do the same for us here." 

"Of course." After this they exchanged thanks and good wishes and hung up. 

With a helpless sigh, Heero replaced the phone on the nightstand and lay back down. Duo wasted no time cuddling up against him, and Heero put his arm around him. 

"We were _so close_ to fixing this. And now his dad's calling the police." 

"Is that going to cause problems?" Duo wondered. 

"I have no idea. If they start some kind of investigation, they might want to talk to us... we should probably think of something to say..." Heero didn't sound as if he wanted to make the effort at the moment. 

Duo squeezed him, trying to offer comfort. The whole situation had already been frustrating and worrying, and now to have Mr. Winner involved made things even less fun. "If we could find Quatre, we could take the exorcism to him -- like Trowa said yesterday. Call up those guys and have them meet us wherever Quatre is." 

"I'm afraid he's hiding," Heero sighed. "He's lost control of what's going on, and he can't handle being around people." 

"If he could have just held out for a couple more days!" 

"I know..." 

"Do you think he _will_ feel like he can be around people long enough to get exorcised? Or will he try to keep hiding forever?" 

"I have no idea," Heero said again. "I'm guessing about everything anyway." 

"We'll need to tell Trowa about all this." Duo had little enthusiasm for that, but Trowa -- assuming last night's divinations hadn't already informed him -- would need to know. That didn't mean Duo was ready to move from his current position to hurry out and deliver unpleasant news. Chances were good that Trowa was awake still or again, but there was no reason for Duo to abandon his Heero-comforting/cuddling efforts just yet. He was extremely comfortable (physically) at the moment, and things weren't likely to get any better than this for the rest of the day. 

"You're so cute," Heero murmured, nuzzling Duo's head with his face. 

"Doesn't that make you desperately want to have amazing sex with me?" 

Heero was groaning with despair and clutching at Duo tightly even before the question was fully out. "Yes, it _does_," he said emphatically, almost miserably. "You know how much better that would make me feel about the entire world right now?" 

"I could try really hard to be quiet," Duo wheedled. 

Heero kissed the top of his head, then squirmed out of his arms. "I'm so sorry." 

With an explosive sigh, Duo buried his face in the pillow Heero had abandoned. After a moment, he kicked his legs under the blanket, trying to relieve his frustration. It wasn't that he didn't completely respect Heero's aversion to the very thought of performing for an audience; it was just completely unfair for someone that had been deprived of sensation for eighty-seven years to have sex withheld from him now that he was human again, even for only a few days. Well, it had been seven days, and that already felt like forever. Apart from being something Duo very much enjoyed, and an aspect of their relationship that seemed awkwardly on hold at the moment, it would also, as Heero had said, be an excellent source of comfort for two men with some serious worries on their shoulders. 

"I'm sorry," said Heero again. "Maybe Trowa will go somewhere today and leave us alone." 

Duo returned the frustrated groan Heero had given before. By the time he looked up, Heero had disappeared into the bathroom.


	189. La Confrérie de la Lune Révéré Part 32

  


Upon returning to Heero's apartment late Saturday afternoon, Trowa found both of his temporary roommates evidently somewhat annoyed and trying not to show it. At first he thought this was because the housework they were attempting was somewhat hampered by Trowa's possessions stacked all over the place, but he became more precisely enlightened when Duo said, "We were expecting you back any time!" -- because if that had been the case, they wouldn't have been able to take advantage of the many hours Trowa had left them alone. Try as he might not to think about it, Trowa knew perfectly well how his presence was specifically inconveniencing his friends. 

"I'm sorry," he said. "I should have let you know when I left." 

At this Duo seemed to relent even from the irritation he didn't want to show in the first place. "Oh, it's no problem. What have you been up to?" 

"I've bought a house," Trowa replied. 

Looking surprised, Heero turned from cleaning the front of a kitchen cabinet with one of the Clorox wipes left over from dealing with Trowa's smoke-damaged furniture. "Actually _bought_ a house?" 

Trowa nodded. "It's in High Palms. I think it should work." 

"But you actually _bought_ it?" Heero reiterated. "Or you're in the process?" 

"No, it's bought and paid for," Trowa confirmed. 

Apparently Heero wasn't sure what to say. 

"Is that weird?" Duo wondered. 

"You were never with anyone who was buying a new house?" Heero returned. 

"Maybe a couple of times, but I wasn't exactly involved in the process." 

"And you weren't around here in time to hear Relena and Colin complaining about it. It usually takes months." Heero gave Trowa a wry smile. "When you said the other day that you needed to get things done, you weren't joking." 

Trowa returned the smile. "It turns out that, if you've been burned out of your house _and_ you can pay cash for a new one, it speeds up the process remarkably." 

"So you're allowed to move in right away?" Trowa didn't think he was imagining the trace of hope in Duo's voice. He also didn't blame him for it. 

"Yes. There's some inspection that needs to take place, but because I'm out of a home right now..." Trowa held up a collection of keys on a small, cheap ring. 

Heero stared at them. "_And_ it's a Saturday," he said in a marveling tone. 

"I probably should have waited instead of making my real estate agent work on the weekend." Trowa gave a little shrug. "But getting something done like this made me feel better -- and I believe she's happy for the commission in any case." 

"What is all this about getting things done?" Heero, having turned back to his work, was lifting items off the counter -- first the toaster, then the bread box -- in order to clean beneath them, and asked this question in a carefully casual tone. 

Trowa found he rather wanted to answer, to explain himself, to try to connect with his friends on this topic, in the hopes of diminishing some of the aloneness he'd been increasingly weighed down with lately. This was an odd sensation in light of his history (and with perhaps some irony attached when he was cohabitating for the first time in almost a century) -- it seemed impossible that he should have become so accustomed to togetherness, to companionship, over the last five months that when some shadow of the aloneness of the preceding 87 years returned it made for a startling and unpleasant contrast. To share his resolution, he believed, would lessen that cold feeling of solitude. Moreover, he understood that personal goals were often better adhered to when you had even the impression of someone holding you accountable. 

He looked at his friends in turn, though his eyes moved rapidly over Duo, whose cleaning efforts were much more random and evidently much less effective than those of the industrious Heero, and lingered on the latter. And for an instant -- it was an almost automatic response -- he shied from the idea of sharing something so personal with Heero. 

It was only an instant, though: the thought of how supportive Heero had been lately, with so little reproof on any score, and the recollection of his admonition last night in an almost Quatre-like tone that Trowa should get some sleep... these weren't even really necessary; they merely formed a capstone on a structure Trowa was a little surprised to find already solid: the awareness that he _did _trust Heero, even with something so personal. This realization already contributed significantly to the easing of his negative feelings. 

As such, he addressed Heero more than Duo as he next spoke. That was only natural, since Heero had asked the question and Trowa's ability to confide in Duo had never been uncertain, but still it might be somewhat novel. "If you remember, the morning after Quatre destroyed the artifact, when I came to talk to you two, you asked me why I was here, and said I was underreacting. You were right. I've developed a bad habit of hesitating... of being passive about things... of not taking charge of situations I should be doing something about. I don't know if it's because I was focused on the curse so exclusively for so long that now I have a hard time focusing on anything else, or some other reason... maybe it's just the way I am... but it has to change. I have to be better at doing what I can without holding back." 

A brief silence and stillness followed this revelation. Trowa's gaze had left Heero and fixed on the refrigerator as the least threatening place it could possibly rest, but he could tell that the other movement in the kitchen had stopped just for a moment. Then the corner of his eye informed him that Heero had resumed cleaning as if his pause had been perfectly natural. Simultaneously, Duo had come to lean against the counter where Trowa stood and bump one of his shoulders against one of Trowa's in a friendly and reassuring fashion. 

"Sounds like a good plan," he said in a casual tone with an underlying seriousness to it. "I mean, it seems to me like you're always busy doing _something_, but if you feel like you could be doing even better..." He shrugged, then grew more somber. "And actually I think you're not the only one who's thinking something like that." Though Duo went on immediately to explain what he meant, Trowa didn't properly hear, for at that moment he was very thoroughly distracted from the verbal conversation. 

Communion magic was a secondary skill for Trowa, and as such the telepathic communications of others, on the rare occasions when actual communicators saw fit to contact him mentally, came across quietly and often rather vaguely. Physical proximity made a significant difference, however, and there was no way he could ignore the arrival in his head of a foreign thought -- or, rather, a bundle of thoughts, like a solid little package of interconnected ideas and emotions wrapped up neatly and sent directly at him from so close by that they were all relatively clear and comprehensible: 

Heero couldn't deny that he'd meant it when he'd said Trowa was underreacting, or that he'd originally blamed Trowa for Quatre's condition. He _still_ thought Trowa had been underreacting that first day, but he'd completely forgiven him for that -- fully admitting that, in these circumstances, not being the one wronged, he wasn't really in any position to offer forgiveness. And he'd ceased to blame Trowa for the bad situation with Quatre. Trowa hadn't known this would happen... and if he had taken it upon himself to destroy the artifact -- which, though he probably should have done, he couldn't really be faulted for not doing -- then _he_ might be the angry one now, and his friends in an even worse position as far as enacting a cure. 

Heero thought Trowa's resolution to be more proactive was an admirable one; he was impressed that Trowa had made it and started working on it so sincerely, especially without Quatre's influence. At the same time, Heero was chagrined by the thought that his disapprobation might have made Trowa think worse of himself. Of course Trowa had areas in which he needed to improve -- they all did -- but it was abhorrent to Heero that Trowa might feel one of his had been thrown into his face by a supposed friend. It might not always have been the case -- at least not 100% -- but Heero approved of Trowa, and wanted him to know that they were allies in the situation with Quatre as in many other things. Yes, he'd meant what he'd said, but it hadn't been intended as a stab at Trowa's character. As if they hadn't all been getting enough of that from Quatre lately. 

Whether Heero had sent all of this mentally because he was embarrassed about saying it aloud, was embarrassed about saying it aloud in front of Duo, felt himself incapable of articulating it at all, or perhaps merely because it was such a numerous list of thoughts that he'd believed could be more quickly and easily conveyed like this, Trowa didn't know. In any case, it overrode Duo, seized Trowa's full attention, and resonated with him so strongly that he had to consider himself shaken. Just when he'd been thinking that he really did trust Heero, this was the perfect response, exactly what he needed. They _were_ allies. They really were. They were friends that could be honest with each other, sharing the unpleasant along with the comforting, even about personal and somewhat troubling topics. It was a warmth and a joy and an unexpected relief to Trowa all at once. 

"I'm sorry, Duo," he said, interrupting with a raised hand whatever Duo had been saying. "I'm sorry, but can you wait just a moment?" And as Duo fell silent with a curious expression, Trowa turned away. Heero's back was to him as he went on doggedly cleaning the kitchen -- though Trowa was fairly certain it was a portion of the kitchen he'd already seen to -- but Trowa addressed him anyway. "It wasn't only what you said, Heero. It seems like everyone I've talked to lately has said something, and it's all combined to help me realize this. It's been more like the entire world reaching out to help me than anybody accusing me of anything." 

The gesture Duo gave at this, though Trowa didn't see it clearly from this angle, conveyed even greater curiosity and now some confusion. Heero, however, did not turn from his work (increasingly pointless as it seemed with each moment that passed), just said somewhat gruffly, "OK, good." 

Trowa didn't think there was anything more to offer on the subject, but still he lingered mentally. He wanted to give some indication of his appreciation of this display of solidarity between himself and Heero -- without, preferably, embarrassing Heero. Struck with inspiration after a prolonged and somewhat awkward silence, he moved to where the container of Clorox wipes stood at the end of the counter and took one. Almost blindly he began rubbing at the stove, which was already gleaming from Heero's prior attentions. 

Duo cleared his throat. "Sooo..." He sounded curious yet, but his new tone was tinged with growing understanding -- or at least hypothesis -- that suggested Heero would probably be teased or confronted or grilled about this later. 

Hoping he hadn't set Heero up for an uncomfortable conversation, "Yes, sorry, Duo," Trowa said. "What were you saying?" 

And that Duo had recognized at the very least that Trowa hadn't heard any of his story the first time was implied by his seeming to restart from the beginning: "Quatre's dad called this morning..."


	190. La Confrérie de la Lune Révéré Part 33

  


This landscaping could use some work, Heero thought. The grass had recently been cut, in the interest of selling the place, but the line of bushes separating the driveway from the lawn was straggling a bit and possibly not a good choice for that spot to begin with. It was all the generic type of outdoor design you got on a new property, progressed far enough that he judged the house had been built four or five years ago and the previous owners hadn't given much consideration to the layout of their yard. Of course he was far from an expert, but he had his opinions. 

They'd come by car rather than magic for a few reasons: first, to get to know the mundane route between Heero's apartment and Trowa's new house; second, so they could form an impression of the place properly, from the outside in; and third, because they had already brought a load of stuff -- smaller things that would fit in Heero's trunk and back seat -- even on this first visit. 

It was, Heero had to admit, exciting to look at the empty residence Trowa was free to alter as he chose, and consider what Heero might do with it if the choice had been his. His imagination couldn't help wandering off to the idea of him and Duo buying a house together. That was nothing they needed right now, but daydreaming about it made Heero understand Trowa's persistence on Wednesday when he'd been thinking so fixedly (and texting so interminably) about aspects of the new home he'd like to share with the man he loved. 

They'd made plans yesterday to spend as much of Sunday as was necessary getting Trowa moved, and it hadn't been merely the aforementioned excitement about a new house driving that conversation. Trowa's eagerness to get back into a place of his own was poignantly obvious, and of course Heero and Duo had their own reasons to want their friend transplanted and their privacy restored. 

It amused Heero to see that Trowa didn't bother to pull out the keys he'd obtained yesterday at the expense of half his real estate agent's weekend; as they approached the tan door in the beige brick, he spoke a quiet unlocking spell as casually as if that were the most natural way of getting in. Then he stepped inside and gestured his friends to follow and begin the tour. 

A large entry or front room stretched all the way up to a twenty-foot ceiling, overlooked by a flight of stairs and the second-floor hallway balcony it led to. Tall windows in two walls made the space bright and warm, but Heero had to think it a bit excessive, even ostentatious, until Trowa, with a gesture at the openness above and around them, remarked, "Good acoustics in here." Then Heero imagined a grand piano taking up a third of the room, with Quatre seated at its bench, and nodded. 

Of course plans to come see this place had only been made after discussing the phone call from Mr. Winner and how his contacting the police might complicate things. The mood of that conversation had been bizarrely eclectic, what with lingering awkward camaraderie between Trowa and Heero that neither was sure how or even whether to express, concern about Quatre and where he might be and how they could go about getting him to emerge and be exorcised, worry and even some irritation regarding the potential police involvement, and Duo's amusement in inventing stories for any cop that came around to question them about their missing friend. 

None of Heero's ideas on the latter subject had made the cut, and Trowa had contributed very little, but Duo's energy and inventiveness had served to provide answers to any queries the law might have in the course of a missing persons investigation. Even Trowa had been entertained by some of the more outlandish of the excuses Duo had suggested, and they'd all been surprisingly cheerful at that point. 

The same attitude, though a little precarious, remained as they looked over the lower floor of Trowa's new house. "A long corner sofa there," he said, pointing along both walls of the living room, "with a few matching chairs facing in around a coffee table for..." Vaguely he finished, "...board games or... that kind of thing..." in a tone that indicated he really had no idea what people did with comfortable couches and coffee tables in living rooms, but was determined to achieve the effect nonetheless. 

"Quatre will help with that," Duo reassured with a grin. 

Trowa smiled faintly, and gestured them on into the kitchen. "Heero, does this meet your approval?" 

Even in dimness, Heero was already nodding before Trowa found a light switch. It wasn't granite countertops or anything, but a lovely, commodious kitchen nonetheless, with plenty of room for some friend that happened to love cooking to come over and experiment. There was even space for a small table for casual meals, as Heero had suggested; evidently Trowa had taken him seriously about finding that in addition to a separate dining room -- which was what they looked at next. 

Yesterday's discussion of the local police had inevitably led to some questions about Trowa's current relationship with the police in his previous hometown. Naturally it had been good news that, though a few more conversations with both them and his insurance company had been required, there had yet to be any suggestion that his old house hadn't really burned because of wiring from the 40's... but some discomfort remained in the lack of full understanding of that situation. Trowa still didn't know whether the moon cult representative that had brainwashed everyone had done so thoroughly enough that he would _never_ face any further trouble relating to the arson, or whether things over there were teetering on the edge of severe inconvenience and possible legal ramifications. 

And this, of course, had finally led them back around to discussion of Trowa's _new_ house and what needed to be done for him to inhabit it. 

"I envision this as an office," he said of a sunny upstairs room that looked out over the deck and the plain expanse of grass that formed the back yard. "And this as a spare room," he added with a gesture to the next empty chamber. 

They came to a halt just inside the master bedroom, the last stop on the tour, observing its pleasant corner windows and broad space as well as the touch of a frown on Trowa's face. This latter, though certainly not like it had been under the influence of the curse, was still fairly pale, so even a very faint blush showed up clearly. In response to the one there now, Heero guessed his friend was specifically wondering whether or not he would be sharing this bedroom. 

This guess was echoed in Duo's head. Instead of bringing it up directly, however, Duo declared, "I love your new house! It's gorgeous!" He really did want to keep Trowa from melancholy, but he was also a little distracted thinking that he might like to live in such a place. Remembering helping Relena paint the one she'd moved into back in June, he was considering how fun it would be to decide where to put things and how to decorate in a new home. Heero might have been somewhat concerned at these thoughts, except that they didn't seem to arise from any serious desire and were unaccompanied by any discontentment. 

"It _is_ really nice," Heero agreed. "Seems like a good choice." Pointedly he added, "I think Quatre will like it." 

Trowa nodded his thanks with a slight smile. "We'll see." And Heero didn't need to hear his thoughts to know what went through his head: he wished Quatre were here right now, that Quatre could have been the first person Trowa had shown around this place, rather than friends that, while certainly close, were not _as_ close or directly concerned. 

"So let's go grab stuff so you can decide where to put it!" Duo added enthusiastically. Again Trowa nodded, the cheer in his expression more pronounced this time, and they all headed out of the master bedroom and down the stairs toward the front door. 

Quatre would like this neighborhood, Heero reflected several minutes later as he returned to the open rear of his car for another set of things to bring inside; he'd already caught sight of four or five people walking dogs or jogging past. Now, a man across the street smiled as Heero glanced over at him, and Heero gave him a polite nod. Admittedly this particular guy, suited and sunglassed, looked like an FBI agent more than a friendly neighbor, but the point remained that there were a lot of people around that Quatre would love meeting and making friends with. If only he could be gotten here in a frame of mind appropriate to start that process. 

After they had this small load unpacked, they would go back to Heero's apartment, where Relena and Colin were to meet them with a borrowed pickup and they could begin the tricky task of negotiating Trowa's larger pieces of remaining furniture (mostly bookshelves) down the apartment halls and stairs so they could be brought to the new house. Conceivably, Trowa could teleport the smaller things, but not only would it exhaust him to be jumping back and forth all day, it seemed to his friends like a more proper move if done the traditional way. 

Heero hadn't mentioned that he'd given Relena a shopping list of essential items Trowa would need -- such as an air mattress, toilet paper, a couple of cheap lamps, and some non-perishable food to stock his new kitchen -- for which he would pay her back later. Trowa probably hadn't considered what he would sleep on here, or what to do in the event he needed to use one of his nice new bathrooms. 

Of course Trowa might not be doing anything nearly so human any time soon. He'd mentioned that he intended to outfit one of the upstairs rooms (at least temporarily) for divination, explaining that having a space specifically set aside for a magical purpose tended to strengthen that particular magic, and hoping that he might be better able to find Quatre thus. Some candles that hadn't been destroyed in his old house were already up there, in fact, having been part of the first load to come over. 

So it was entirely possible that, happy as he might be to have a new home of his own, Trowa wouldn't really be conscious of much of it for the next few days. Heero was already pondering how best to go about advising moderation in magical activities and a healthy amount of sleep. Quatre would probably emerge eventually, and his mood wasn't likely to be improved if he found that his boyfriend had worked himself mostly to death trying to locate him earlier. 

Heero knew that in this he would be behaving very much like that same Quatre, but at the moment they all needed some reminders of the better of Quatre's personal characteristics. At the very least, he would be doing his part, alongside Duo, to keep Trowa relatively cheerful while they went about the rest of the weekend's work.


	191. Guest Room Soap Opera Part 1

The amount of work available to an exorcist at any given time was completely unpredictable. Hajime could -- and sometimes did -- go weeks without hearing from anyone, and feel grateful that he had another source of income a little less fickle. And then, because that was the way the world moved, he would get multiple requests for help in a single day, and send a fifth call to voicemail because it came in the middle of the fourth. This was satisfying, and, as he connected to listen to the message the last caller had left, his mood was complacent as he looked forward to an upcoming week of work. 

"Good morning, Mr. Saitou. This is Bridgestone Gains at U.S.Seido." 

Hajime stiffened. It had been an ongoing relief not to hear anything from Seido for the last five months, but just under that relief lay always the awareness that it wasn't impossible that he _might_. He'd been keeping his ears open for any news about the yakuza that might concern him, such as any hint of haunting of premises or possession of persons -- since, after the service he and Sano had rendered them back in March, any subsequent necrovisual problems were sure to prompt Seido to contact no one but him -- but as yet hadn't heard anything to worry him. He'd carefully kept himself from anticipating never having to deal with them again, and was glad now that he hadn't allowed hopes to arise that would have been dashed today. 

"It has come to my attention," Gains went on, "that the police want to question you." 

Hajime's frown deepened. This was news to him, and hadn't been one of the reasons he'd conceptualized for Gains to be calling him. 

"They can be so inconvenient..." The old man's voice was easy and fairly cheerful, so very different from how he'd sounded when Hajime had interacted with him before. "Especially when there are important parts of your life they just wouldn't comprehend." Gains chuckled. "It's like a drama class exercise just talking to them! I very well understand the position you're in: even if you had nothing to do with the young man's disappearance, there are a lot of questions you'd rather not answer. I have certainly been there." 

Disappearance? Hajime made a sudden gesture of understanding. 

"So I thought you might appreciate a place to stay for a while. I can offer you somewhere to relax and be sure nobody will bother you until a more convenient time... after all this business with your missing client has been sorted out, for example. It's an extremely comfortable suite with everything you could need, and there's more than room for two, if you wanted to bring your partner." 

Now Hajime smiled grimly. Apparently 'this kind of queer bullshit' wasn't so much a problem in this context. He'd known at the time that the homophobic sentiment had been a subconscious one brought out by Gains's shade-induced anger, something he wouldn't have verbalized under normal circumstances, but it was still darkly amusing to hear him now offering Hajime a sort of luxury vacation or retreat with his presumed gay lover. 

"So call me back and let me know whether or not this would help you out. The offer stands as long as you need it." Gains left his personal cell number, something Hajime assumed not a lot of people were allowed -- his initial call had come in from 'Restricted' -- and said a friendly goodbye. 

Pensively Hajime saved the message, hung up, and pocketed his phone. He had a lot to think about all of a sudden. 

So Gains was keeping an eye on him, was he? Looking out for him, apparently, and minutely enough that he knew about things like related police agendas before Hajime himself did. What a lovely thought. Who didn't want a mob secretary peering silently over his shoulder? 

That was all Hajime had time for before his phone vibrated again. If this was Gains with a second try, he was just going to have to leave another message, because Hajime definitely hadn't decided on a response yet. It was with some reluctance that he withdrew his phone once more and looked at it, but then he answered quickly when he saw the caller's name. 

"Someone is leaking police information to U.S.Seido," was how he greeted his friend. 

"What?" demanded the startled Chou. "How do you know?" 

"Because I just got a call from Seido about the police wanting to question me." 

"Shit. Even _I_ just heard about that." 

"I assume this is about Quatre Winner?" 

"That's right." Chou sounded distracted now; he was probably running through various co-workers in his head, trying to decide who he thought was passing information to the local yakuza. "Yeah, Winner senior reported Winner junior missing, and you talked to the son the last day he was around, I guess? The guys on this just want to ask you some questions -- you're not a suspect or anything -- but I figured you'd still want a heads-up before they showed up at your door." 

Hajime thanked him with genuine gratitude. And when Chou said nothing in response, Hajime added a little impatiently, "You do remember I can read minds? If you want to know who's spying on the police, we can come up with a way to find out." 

"Yeah..." said Chou slowly. "I'm not sure I _do_ want to know. You know we don't touch Seido unless we absolutely have to." 

"You'd probably be better off knowing anyway." 

"Yeah..." Chou said again. "Yeah. I'll let you know if I want to set something up." 

"And let me know if you hear anything else about me." 

"Right. Or if that Winner guy turns up." 

"I'll probably hear about that before you will." 

"What, from Seido?" 

"God forbid." 

Chou laughed darkly. "Well, try not to get yourself killed by the mob, OK? I'm already working on a shit-ton of paperwork." 

"I'll make it as complicated as possible just to keep you late." 

"Yeah, you have a nice day too." 

"I'll talk to you later." 

Hajime re-pocketed his phone and cast a calculating glance around. He barely noticed, though, such details of the room as Tokio asleep on the couch or the DVD's of the series he and Sano were currently watching strewn across the coffee table. He had a decision to make, and it needed to be made quickly. 

Of course there was the option of just letting the police talk to him. He wasn't a criminal, after all, and had no reason to fear the law. But the possibility that the specific officers that came to talk to him would happen to be aware of magic and would understand what was going on did not strike him as great -- and otherwise, explaining that, carrying a sword, he'd talked to Winner junior the last day he was around because he'd been hoping to exorcize angry supernatural energy from him might _provide_ a reason to fear the law. 

If his last few months' independent study of communication magic had progressed in that direction, brainwashing the police into believing that the completely unsuspicious Hajime Saitou had nothing useful to tell them would have been quick and convenient... but that had never been a technique that interested him much, so he hadn't looked into it. 

Conceivably he could make something up the normal way, invent some other, less magical reason to have visited that Winner Plastics office last week -- but if he was going to mislead them, why bother having the conversation at all? They had a job to do, and the missing young man needed to be found in any case (not least so he could be exorcized); rather than complicate things (and probably get himself in trouble later for obstructive behavior), it seemed better to avoid the questions entirely, to fade out of sight until the matter had been resolved. 

But did that mean taking Gains up on his offer? In some ways it was tempting -- it would certainly be a very neat solution to the problem, and Hajime had to admit to some curiosity about the kind of accommodations Seido would provide -- but in others it made his skin crawl. He couldn't imagine accepting what was essentially a friendly favor from a mob secretary. And yet how would it look to Gains if he refused? U.S.Seido was an organization that needed to be dealt with carefully, and he certainly didn't want to stir resentment by appearing antagonistic toward them. 

What inoffensive excuse, though, could he offer Gains for not accepting? Where else could he go? Of his three friends, one lived across the country, one was the cop he'd just talked to, and one was likely to be visited at home by police looking for Hajime should Hajime not be immediately locatable; he couldn't stay with any of them. And a hotel would probably not satisfy Gains -- why pay for an impersonal room when Gains was offering one much more convenient and luxurious for free? And if Seido people continued watching him, engaging a hotel room and then claiming he was doing something else seemed unwise. 

This was irritating. Just when Hajime had been anticipating a happily busy week, something like this had to come up. Now, no matter where he stayed, he would probably have to put off the appointments he'd made, leave people hanging that really did need his help, and probably lose business because of it. Quatre Winner had chosen an inconvenient time to disappear. 

It undoubtedly hadn't been his fault, though: his was a particularly severe case, and the young man couldn't really be blamed for rash actions under the influence of that anger. Furthermore, the artifact possession added an interest to the situation that made it impossible for Hajime to be annoyed with Quatre personally, despite any inconvenience he might have caused. 

And these thoughts had given Hajime an idea. He scrolled through his contacts to the B's. Then he couldn't help gazing, motionless, at the name for a moment with an echo of the wonder he'd felt at their first meeting; it seemed impossible that he should really have this person's number. He remembered hearing him described in college as 'an immortal magical superhero who can do pretty much anything' -- and now he was about to casually call him. Suggesting to such a person such an imposition as he now had in mind displeased him, but alternatives were scarce. 

"Hello?" came the tired voice from the other end. 

"It's Hajime. I understand that boyfriend of yours is missing."


	192. Guest Room Soap Opera Part 2a

Sano stared down at the message again in puzzlement and perhaps a bit of annoyance. _Can you feed the cats?_ it said without a word of explanation. And though he'd written back, _Sure, why?_ a good thirty minutes ago, word of explanation was _still_ lacking. At least Hajime had said 'can you,' and ended the text with a question mark, rather than making it an order. 

Tokio and Misao wouldn't be expecting their dinner for another hour or so, which gave Sano some time to make plans before he headed over there. Not that his plans took terribly long: he wanted to know what was going on, why Hajime had texted him such an unexpected request and then started ignoring him, and that meant camping until the exorcist came home and explained himself. Sano would only be working on homework (and then probably video games) for the rest of the evening; he might as well do that at Hajime's house. He was pretty sure he'd left his physics textbook over there the last time he'd used it anyway. 

So he packed up what books he did have as well as his 360. This, of course, meant taking his own car, since he wasn't going to haul around an X-Box on the bus, but he tried not to grumble _too_ much when the circumstance couldn't be avoided. At least tomorrow's bus ride to school from Hajime's house wasn't a bad route, and quicker than from his apartment. 

Misao jumped up his leg and climbed to his shoulder the moment he was inside the door. She always seemed aware, somehow, when someone was approaching the house, and Sano wondered a little whether she had some kind of divinatory ability Hajime knew nothing about. Though with Hajime, it was more likely that he knew perfectly well and just hadn't mentioned it. He had, after all, gone almost half a year without deigning to tell Sano that he believed him capable of subconsciously using every different branch of magic. Sano still wasn't quite over that yet. 

"Hi, Misao," he greeted the little cat as she sniffed at his face. "You hungry?" 

She replied that she was, and that he should definitely give her a lot of the wet food she liked so much. 

Sano laughed, and didn't bother responding except by heading into the kitchen. Walking with Misao on his shoulder was always something of a challenge -- especially because, even in the few months he'd known her, she'd increased in size, and eventually probably wasn't going to be able to ride up there anymore. At the moment, she splayed out and dug claws into Sano's flesh. He'd gotten used to this by now, and resigned himself to its effects on his shirts. 

As he entered the kitchen, Tokio gave him an indifferent-sounding greeting from where she stood beside her food bowl. Sano bent to retrieve her water dish, at which point Misao jumped down. As he then moved to grab the other one and rinse them both out, he asked, "Do you guys know where Hajime is?" He might have said something like, _"Where's the uncommunicative bastard who normally feeds you?"_ but had learned that the cats didn't do very well with sarcasm. In any case, they didn't know where Hajime was, so it mattered very little how Sano referred to him. 

He went through the somewhat complicated process of doling out a specific amount of dry food alongside a specific amount of wet food for each of the animals, then stood back against a counter while they ate. His eyes were turned toward Tokio's almost manically quick gulping motions, but he wasn't really watching; he was puzzling, somewhat annoyed, about Hajime. 

It wasn't as if Sano wasn't a regular fixture of this house these days, well known to the cats and well versed in their care. It wasn't as if he minded. He would do much more than just feed the familiars for his friend and sometimes professional partner, provided Hajime asked at least relatively nicely... but where _was_ Hajime? Normally a request for Sano to feed the cats came when Sano already knew what Hajime was about. Though admittedly, now that he thought back on previous instances, this had always been because Sano had known beforehand where Hajime would be rather than because Hajime had actually told him at the time of the request. 

Assuming that standing around being frustrated and curious would get him nowhere, he wandered into the den and set up his X-Box. To assuage his annoyance, he would play some Madden for a bit before starting his homework. Hajime, though he sometimes watched a game with a compelling atmosphere, could work up no interest in Madden, so it was better to play it when he wasn't around in any case. 

Then a couple of hours passed without Sano realizing, and the next thing he knew, it was 9:30 and he hadn't actually started his homework and Hajime had never appeared. Swearing for multiple reasons, Sano pulled out his lovely phone and texted, _Seriously where the hell are you?_ making sure to spell all the words out properly so Hajime would not completely disregard the message. Of course he might -- today's precedent suggested he would -- completely disregard the message anyway. 

Then, reluctant but aware he needed to hurry, Sano turned his attention toward his books. 

The next morning, at what felt like a hugely early hour on a day when he didn't have to work at oh-dark-hundred, he was partially roused by Misao attacking his feet. It took several instances of him shifting so she fell off the couch, her jumping back up, and him grumbling at her to stop before he reached a greater state of consciousness and realized that it must be breakfast time for the cats. Which meant Hajime must never have come home, since he would have fed them by now. 

He dragged himself up and into the kitchen, where Tokio was waiting looking reproachful. Waking sluggishly as he moved, Sano set out food and water and gave slow thought to his day. He needed to check his phone for any response to yesterday's texts, then get ready for school. Maybe Hajime would answer him or come home while Sano was nicely distracted in class. Assuming class was able to distract him at all. 

As he was heading back to the den, however, to look at his phone, the doorbell rang, so he turned again in the opposite direction. 

To his surprise, it was two police officers. And if the unexpected advent of badges and uniforms at such an early hour hadn't startled him, "We're looking for Hajime Saitou" certainly would have. 

"What?!" After this outburst and the jump that accompanied it, Sano shook himself. These guys didn't appear stern or combative -- in fact they seemed fairly friendly -- but, well, cops were cops. And the fact that they'd shown up here right after Hajime's already aggravatingly mysterious disappearance was worrisome. He apologized for his reaction, then added, "Hajime better not have stabbed someone." Though not a joke the officers would fully understand, this might at least make him appear a little less wary. 

"I don't think so," one of them smiled. "We just needed to ask him some questions; he's not in trouble." 

This was probably all the information they would relinquish about what they were here for, so Sano would have to deal with the situation based on only that. If Hajime wanted him to relay some specific story or something, he should have left better instructions than, _Can you feed the cats?_

Sano stepped aside and said, "He's not actually here right now, but you guys can come in if you want." 

At that moment Misao, from beside Sano's leg, yowled up at the officers, greeting and demanding attention. 

One of them smiled and stepped inside, crouching to the cat's level to pet her as Sano moved back to allow him to do so. "Well, hey, there," the cop said. "What a pretty baby!" 

Misao remarked that, while she often wondered what non-communicative humans were saying to her, she was well aware that it probably wasn't anything she would really care about. Sano thought he might tell her sometime and see what she thought about being a 'pretty baby.' 

"So Mr. Saitou isn't home," the second cop, less interested in meeting the cat, remarked. "Do you know when he'll be back?" 

"No idea." Sano looked around for the inevitable appearance of Tokio, and followed her movement toward them as soon as he saw where she was. "He hasn't answered any of my texts." This was true, but, without mentioning the original _Can you feed the cats?_, didn't give any indication that he was aware Hajime was up to something odd. He shrugged. "He never tells me where he's going, but he usually doesn't stay out all that long." 

Now the cat-friendly officer had transferred his attention to Tokio, and said from his crouched position, "So you think he might be back here later?" 

"I really don't know," Sano answered. "I'm heading off to class pretty soon here, so I won't be around, but you guys could come back and check." 

The officer nodded as he rose, and at the same moment Sano darted to catch Misao around the ribcage before she could bolt out the front door -- something she knew she wasn't supposed to do but apparently couldn't resist trying. "Nope," he told her. She protested, squirming, in his arms. 

"Are you his roommate?" 

"Nah, just a friend." Sano tried not to sound bitter; no reason to indicate to the police that he wished he were, in fact, a very specific type of roommate, more than just a friend. "Sano Sagara." 

The first cop nodded, while the cat-friendly officer smiled and said, "Well, we'll get out of your way. Thanks for your time." 

"Yeah, no problem." Sano was wrestling with Misao, trying to encourage her up onto his shoulder rather than any other direction, and didn't look at the face of either policeman. 

"Have a good day," the first said as the two men turned and walked down the front steps. 

Sano closed the door behind them, ceasing his struggle with Misao, who batted vengefully at his ear and then started to slide down his arm so she could jump to the floor from a slightly lower altitude. Sano turned to face the house with a frown, looking slowly back and forth between the two cats and feeling the frown grow into a scowl. 

"What the hell do the police want with Hajime?" he wondered aloud. 

Neither cat entirely understood him, but they picked up on the fact that he was simultaneously angry and concerned, and that both emotions were, to some extent, aimed at Hajime. Misao, losing track of her annoyance about being prevented from leaving the house, wondered whether Hajime was all right; while Tokio, in her superior way, asserted that Hajime was a very effective and powerful being that probably didn't need anyone to worry about him. 

He could hear the alarm he'd set on his phone going off in the next room; he didn't really have time to pursue this issue right now if he wanted to get to class on time. He made a frustrated noise, which startled Misao, and headed for the den. 

Well, if he put off showering until tomorrow, he would have a few spare minutes right now. He decided right away to take this route, and thumbed through the contacts in his phone looking for a specific one. 

Though he'd spent some time with Chou and did have his phone number, Sano couldn't remember ever having called him before. So far they'd gotten along in that way people did where it wasn't obvious whether or not they actually liked each other, and in fact it could easily be inferred that they didn't; Sano wasn't sure what the case actually was, nor how Chou would react to a call from him, but he wasn't about to refrain when Chou might have some answers. 

"Well, this is new," was how the cop greeted him. "Don't think I've ever heard from _you_ before." 

"Yeah..." Sano wouldn't have minded some banter with Chou -- the guy was kinda fun to mess around -- but it was more important to seek information. "Have you heard from Hajime? Do you know where he is? And why are your buddies coming around bugging about him?" 

"He didn't tell you?" Chou sounded amused. 

Sano made a frustrated sound. 

Chou laughed openly. "You guys are a trip." 

"So do you know where he is?" wondered Sano impatiently. 

"Nope." 

"But obviously you knew he was going somewhere," Sano insisted, very impatient. "And what do the cops want from him?" 

"I don't know if I should tell you that kind of thing." Chou's languid tone was clearly calculated to annoy. "I'm not really supposed to, you know?" 

Sano tried very hard to keep from rising to the bait, because the more calmly he could deal with Chou, the sooner he could find out what he wanted to know. "Probably not," he agreed, sounding annoyed despite his efforts. "But it wouldn't kill you." 

"Might lose me my job, though." 

Sano took a deep breath. "Come on, you know it won't. I don't know where he is, and some cops showed up at his door looking for him and didn't tell me why." 

"Well, he runs around doing weird shit," Chou replied lazily, "so that's no surprise." 

"Seriously," Sano growled. "If you know where he is, tell me." 

"I already told you I don't know." 

"What do you cops want with him?" 

"Can't tell you that." 

"Did he tell you anything?" 

"Obviously he didn't tell _you_ anything." 

With a loud sound of irritation Sano said, "Fuck you!" and hung up. He probably shouldn't have done that, but he felt like Chou had been deliberately giving him crap and wouldn't have provided any answers even if he happened to have them. So he went to get ready for school. 

On every break during and between the two classes he had that day, he texted Hajime continually. Finally, as he prepared for work, he called. Hajime had never once broken his promise to answer whenever Sano called, and in return, in a sort of unspoken covenant, Sano had refrained from abusing that promise: instead of bothering Hajime whenever he felt like hearing the guy's voice, he only called when he had a legitimate reason to. 

And it was not because he felt his current worry about Hajime's whereabouts and safety wasn't a legitimate reason that he had not yet called in this scenario, but because he dreaded initiating the first phone call that would not be answered, dreaded pushing Hajime to break that promise. It felt as if they were progressing toward some sort of crisis... perhaps one that had been long in coming. And now, as his call went directly to voicemail for the first time he could remember, there was a palpable painful clenching of his heart. Agitated, he shoved his phone back into his pocket and headed for the Panda. 

He couldn't bear to try again that day -- try calling, anyway; he kept texting at every available opportunity. When he returned to Hajime's house that night, he tried not to rush inside in the hopes that Hajime might be there, but was still disappointed when he wasn't. So he just apologized to the cats for the lateness of their dinner and went to bed on the couch in the den again. 


	193. La Confrérie de la Lune Révéré Part 34

  


"And as they're all watching in horror, the unfortunate woman begins pounding her head against the wall, until they rush to stop her." 

Duo was sure Heero already regretted having brought leftover lasagna for lunch; it necessitated their presence in the breakroom to make use of the microwaves before they could head out to the privacy of his car. Which meant having to put up with co-workers for three minutes and twenty-five seconds at least. Duo, of course, was secretly pleased (not that it was a secret from Heero), as he cherished every moment he got to spend with a certain one of them. 

"Wufei," he said, "you have such a good memory for movie scenes. That one reminds me of an episode of that one show -- what was it called? The one about the robots that were magical, and the mental breakdown the one guy had spread to the other robots like a virus, and had all these magical consequences?" 

Neither the compliment, even with its admiring tone, nor the description of the episode could distract Wufei -- though Duo thought he did catch a spark of interest about the robots. Wufei was like one of those beetles that doggedly resumed its precise direction of travel even after having been flicked several feet off course across the sidewalk and onto its back. Now he said, leading and unsubtle, "People _are_ capable of such mental breakdowns, you know. Not with magical ramifications, of course, but to the extent where their normal functions are inhibited." 

This was the latest rumor about Quatre: that his nerves had snapped, preventing him from coming to work. And because this supposed breakdown might have something to do with his split with Heero (which had been upgraded to 'traumatic' to fit the circumstance), no one dared approach Heero or Duo about it directly. The level of gossip had intensified madly, though, and even what Duo didn't overhear, Heero picked up on mentally and relayed to him. 

And now Wufei, who thought he was clever, was trying to make himself a hero in the eyes of the sales team by winkling out the truth so he could whisper it to everyone else as soon as Heero and Duo had left the room. 

"Oh, I don't know," Duo said, ignoring the obvious bait and offering some of his own, "I wouldn't say it's _impossible_ for someone's mental breakdown to have magical ramifications. I mean, nobody's ever _proved_ magic doesn't exist, have they?" 

This one came so close to derailing Wufei's attempt at getting information about Quatre that Duo could probably guess the exact wording of his eager reply on the subject of whether or not magic existed. But with an evident effort, Wufei said instead, "That's true, but the much more mundane results of someone's mental breakdown would be evident much sooner." 

"Yeah, you're right. Like the first thing that happened in the robot show was that the one robot couldn't do his usual routine that kept the power running to his docking-station-house-thing." 

Again Wufei looked as if he might be interested in the robot show, but again he didn't ask. Evidently seeing that his attempt had failed, he said, "Are you aware that I'm being considered as your partner trainer?" 

Now Duo was the one derailed. What Wufei thought to gain by this rather irrelevant interjection he didn't know, but he was surprised and tickled by the news. "Are you?" 

Wufei seemed pleased by Duo's enthusiasm. "That's correct," he said. "Of course Dorothy hasn't made the final decision yet, and at the moment she isn't receiving any input on the subject from a higher authority." 

Ah, so that was it: allusions to Quatre and the implication that Duo and Wufei, possibly destined to work closely together, should be ready to confide in each other. Duo didn't care; he was just happy at the prospect of a lot more daily messing-with-Wufei time. 

Heero broke into the conversation at this moment by pressing a hot Tupperware container against Duo's arm and making him jump. After the laughter that resulted from this, a couple of related comments -- one of them silent, intended only for Heero, about how good it was to be able to feel a hot Tupperware -- and a brief goodbye to the disappointed Wufei, they left the breakroom and headed down the hall. 

"How much time do you think he spends looking up those nerdy-sounding shows and movies you keep making up?" Heero wondered quietly once they were a safe distance away. 

Because he'd already asked, Duo knew that Heero didn't pick anything up from Wufei mentally and therefore didn't know the answer to this question. "I like to think a lot," he said smugly. "Convenient how I can never remember the titles, isn't it? And isn't it totally nice of me to give him something to entertain himself with?" 

"If it distracts him even a little from trying to dig up dirt about Quatre," Heero muttered, "I won't complain." 

"Is Dorothy really considering him?" 

"Yes." Heero's tone hadn't brightened much. "I think she thinks it'll be funny." 

"It will!" Duo laughed. "We'll be like Pinky and the Brain!" 

"I'm not even going to ask which of you you're casting as which of them." 

Duo paused. "That's good, because I'm not sure myself. Anyway, I feel like he won't actually be too bad of a trainer even if he is... Wufei." 

"Wufei has the best numbers on the team," was Heero's grudging admission. "And if you can get over the way he is, he really is a very good partner trainer. I'm _sure_ Dorothy's considering him because she wants to see how much social havoc it'll cause, but besides that it's because she can see you're going to be good enough to deserve the best." 

Extremely pleased at this, Duo smiled broadly. "And who else is being considered for deserves-the-best Duo?" 

"That would be me." Out of nowhere as they walked away from the elevators, Catharine fell into step beside them with a smile of her own. "I'm sorry for overhearing and butting in, but I _am_ relevant." 

"Catharine is second place in sales performance," Heero offered, reiterating the point that Dorothy was seeking the best possible training for Duo. 

"I have to choose between Nerdfei and Trowa's hot cousin?" Duo demanded, delighted. 

Heero stifled a laugh. "Please don't ever call him that again at the office." 

"And it probably won't be much of a choice." Catharine seemed to be repressing her own amusement at Duo's nickname for their co-worker, but she often had such a playful demeanor even when discussing serious subjects that it was a little difficult to tell. "I'm _supposedly_ working on a sales protocol project with Quatre right now. He's barely been responding to my emails lately, our projected completion date's been moved out twice, and now the entire thing is on hold, which is why Dorothy's considering me for you at all... but I may not have time for partner training." 

Sobering a bit, Duo nodded his understanding. 

"Listen," she said, all playfulness dropping from her lowered voice, "I'll completely understand if you can't answer, and I'm sorry to ask in the first place -- but do you guys know where Quatre is and when he'll be back?" 

The straightforward question, presented only once she had established a legitimate reason to want to know and an apparent concern for the subject, formed an interesting contrast to Wufei's underhanded gossipy curiosity. Nevertheless, Duo allowed Heero the decision whether or not to answer. 

Heero waited until they were out the front doors, past the prying ears of the security guard, to respond, and Duo wondered what he was reading in Catharine's mind that caused his somewhat surprising frankness: "The last anyone's heard from him was an email to his dad saying he was going on vacation -- but not where or for how long. We think he's hiding from his own bad mood." 

"I see," she said, pulling car keys from her purse with a slight frown as they all started into the parking lot. "Thanks." After a moment she added, "And how is Trowa?" 

"Not fabulous," Duo replied. Immediately he amended the statement. "I mean, Trowa's always fabulous, _of course_, but he's not exactly happy right now." Skipping most of the detail he finished, "He's really worried about Quatre." 

"Well, you can tell him his hot cousin says, 'Hang in there,'" Catharine advised, a touch of playfulness having returned to her tone atop an underlying authoritativeness, "and that he can call me if he ever wants to talk. He has my number." She'd stopped walking and turned slightly, indicating that her destination lay in a different direction from theirs. 

Duo halted beside her. In response to her friendly concern and offer of support, he was inclined to give her a huge hug, but figured that, in this work setting, he'd better restrain himself. In lieu of that he said, "Yooooouuuu are invited to my party." 

"Are you having a party?" 

"Eventually. Sometime. When everything's happy again. And you are totally invited, so don't forget!" 

Seeming amused by his earnestness, she chuckled, "I won't!" She transferred her smile to Heero, who had progressed a pace past them and turned back to witness the final exchange in silence. "You guys have a good lunch." 

"You too!" Duo said, and turned to join Heero walking toward his car as Catharine waved them away with a friendly hand.


	194. La Confrérie de la Lune Révéré Part 35

  


The last thing Trowa said before he cast his spell, under his breath and apostrophically, was, "I'm sorry about this." Then he murmured the words that would take him where he needed to go, and fell silent as he went there. 

Aside from doing something he didn't feel entirely right about, he was taking a risk here. Though he used a teleportation spell that had a built-in clause against appearing (to great personal detriment) in the same space as some object, there was no guarantee that the room would be devoid of people -- and in this case, unless by some phenomenal good luck it turned out to be Quatre, anyone that happened to be there would undoubtedly be startled and astonished, might well run and/or scream, and would certainly require quite a bit of explanation. 

Quatre's bedroom resembled his office last Friday -- forlornly dark and empty, door closed. Trowa stood still for a few moments, listening. There was noise outside, rather distressingly close: a couple of people were talking on the landing, and, though Trowa couldn't specifically identify the voices, they were familiar enough in this setting. They didn't seem to be discussing anything that might lead them to enter Quatre's room, but Trowa still stood poised to jump back out again should the sounds approach the door. But in fact they faded into the hallway across from it. 

He let out a quiet breath and moved slowly toward the door himself. This old house had creaking floorboards, and it wouldn't do to give away his presence by carelessness so that some member of Quatre's family thought the wayward son had returned and came running in to see him. Beside the door, he listened for a moment longer, then murmured a spell. Once magically protected against detection from without, he flipped the light switch and turned to face the room. 

The difference in the latter since the last time Trowa had been here was startling. The bulletin board that had previously displayed a number of happy photographs now stood on the floor leaning against the wall as if it had fallen down -- or perhaps been knocked down -- and Quatre just hadn't felt equal to rehanging it. The photos were like the board in miniature; it looked as if some overly vigorous movement had ripped many of them off their push-pins, and then they'd all been, instead of put back with Quatre's usual neatness, stacked and tucked into the corner of the board. 

The bookshelf was in similar condition; the books had evidently been knocked off of it and then hastily replaced in a vertical stack that did not represent their previous organization. Even sadder than the books, the model cars on the other shelves _all_ appeared to be damaged. Though they'd been returned to their places, it looked as if they'd been swept off prior to that or even thrown, and the pieces that had broken from each had been only carelessly tossed onto the shelves beside the cars rather than arranged with any care or repaired. 

For the first time Trowa had ever seen when he wasn't currently occupying it, Quatre's bed was unmade, and one of the pillows lay, limp and lonely, on the floor. Beside it, a line of clothes was scattered from the open closet door all the way to the opposite wall. 

No wonder Quatre had fled this place. This room should have been his sanctuary, his escape from a world that wasn't doing much for his frame of mind... but through that very frame of mind, in breaking down the organization he valued so highly and damaging the comforting items around him, Quatre had turned even his own private space into something that must actually have agitated him more. It only made sense, at that point, to go somewhere else. But where had he gone? This was what Trowa had come to investigate. 

He had turned the computer on as he'd looked around, and now he sat down at the desk. The roll-out shelf that held the keyboard and mouse was stuck, and took some wrangling to bring out; it felt a bit as if someone had pounded on it and twisted the metal track a little out of shape. Trowa was glad he had added a sound clause to his spell at the door, because, as quiet as he tried to be, this took some considerable rattling. 

The mouse barely worked; perhaps it had been the primary target of the slamming. It required a combination of computer accessories, with emphasis on the keyboard, to get into Firefox and direct it toward the email service Quatre used for personal correspondence. He entered Quatre's login information, thinking apologies at his absent lover again as he initiated this further violation of privacy. 

He was looking for clues as to where Quatre might be, and, given that he was probably the only person that knew Quatre's email password, he might be the only person that could look in this particular direction. He wanted to see the infamous email Quatre's father didn't think Quatre had really written. He wanted to see if Quatre had contacted anyone else about this supposed vacation of his, had said anything to anyone that might indicate where he'd gone. He wanted, he had to admit, to connect with Quatre again, even if it was only a shadow of their real connection and being carried out in a hopeless and underhanded way. 

Given that Quatre, as long as he had his phone, could still access this account, it was possible he'd already erased anything that might provide Trowa with any useful information... but Trowa thought it worth checking even so. And there was a faint chance that, in any case, this would make him feel a little better. 

The inbox was full; actually, it rather resembled Trowa's at the moment, with many new items, several replies, and, below that, a long list of messages already read but not yet dealt with. Normally, Trowa knew, Quatre liked to keep his inbox empty by replying as things arrived; he'd even teasingly lamented the state of Trowa's in the past when he'd seen it. But at the moment it was no surprise that he'd received many more emails lately than he'd had the patience to do anything about. 

At a glance, Trowa counted at least four unread messages from Heero. Even Duo (display name 'The Great And Singular Maxwell') had tried to raise a response from Quatre once. All of these Trowa skipped, and clicked instead on the email from Bernard Winner whose subject line was _Re:Vacation_. He scrolled down (or, rather, arrowed down, since the mouse suddenly wasn't working again) past Mr. Winner's worried queries to the quoted original message. 

It was startlingly brief, rivaling anything Trowa at his most laconic could have written: _I am on vacation starting now. I won't be at home or at work._

Trowa shook his head. With so few words, and knowing how Quatre had been in recent days, he couldn't judge, as Mr. Winner had, whether or not Quatre himself had written this. He moved back out into the inbox and glanced down the list again. When nothing looked promising, he clicked on the sent mail folder. 

After only another half second of visual scanning, he stiffened in his seat and blinked several times. His first thought was that he must be imagining things; he couldn't be seeing right. His mind already raced with the possibilities implied by this information. He'd come looking for clues, and he'd found one, but it pointed in an unexpected and unpleasant direction. 

The name of the recipient of the last email Quatre had sent prior to the 'Vacation' notification to his father was Vallis Rheita. 

As soon as Trowa could get to it -- the mouse refused to cooperate again, so he was forced to tab around -- he hastened to try to find out what Quatre had been doing emailing La Confrérie de la Lune Révéré. Not that Trowa couldn't already guess; he'd heard the way Quatre had sounded last week when he'd asked about 'that French cult.' And it was no surprise to find that, just as Trowa happened to know Quatre's email password, Quatre should know Trowa's as well in order to get at the address of the person that had written about the arson. 

The message was, for some reason, in French -- perhaps Quatre had believed this would add a personalized touch -- and Trowa worked in impatient haste to copy it so he could paste it, in another window, into Google's translator. Then he attempted tensely to make sense of what he could now read: 

_This is Quatre Winner , Trowa boyfriend Barton. How dare you send this email you ? It is a part of your organization hit against him in this way is absolutely unacceptable , and one e -mail is not enough reward. I'll tell you that it was I who destroyed the artifact you call the artifact Rousell , so your reactionary faction acted against Trowa for any reason whatsoever. His house was destroyed and his life is affected for any reason whatsoever, and all you can say is that it was not your intention? If your management skills are so poor that you can not prevent those under your command to do such dangerous and destructive things for no reason , I do not have to worry about any threat to you in the future : your incompetence is sure to destroy your organization before long. Before that, however , you must Trowa , you claim to revere him a much more meaningful and rewarding to practice ._

He had assumed -- he and Heero and Duo had _all_ assumed, despite what Mr. Winner might think -- that Quatre had gone into hiding trying to avoid everyone and his own behavior, but the contents and timing of this email strongly suggested otherwise. Quatre had told them that he'd been the one to destroy the artifact. Quatre had told them he was Trowa's boyfriend. Quatre had practically invited retribution, even while demanding recompense. And if La Confrérie was keeping an eye on Trowa, it wasn't impossible that, with this information, they now knew where the power from their precious artifact had gone. And what had they done then?? 

The panic sprang up so acutely that Trowa actually stuttered as he spoke a nearly unthinking divination. "_Is Quatre alive?_" 

The sense he immediately received in response, not quite a vision but a clear and distinct feeling of Quatre as Trowa knew him (plus a hot, angry sensation that felt very much like the familiar energy from the artifact), made him shudder and his eyes prickle with tears. 

His voice was even more unsteady than before, if a little less intense, as he asked, "Where is Quatre?" But to this there was no answer. No more was there to, "Is Quatre with La Confrérie de la Lune Révéré?" 

A certain muffled feeling sometimes came in place of an answer to divinatory questions, and it was difficult even for Trowa to tell the difference between not having enough information or needing to alter the wording of the question and something blocking divination. Possibly a third problem in this instance was his not having a clear idea how to pronounce 'La Confrérie de la Lune Révéré.' In any case, though he would certainly try further divination when he got home, at the moment it probably wasn't going to get him anywhere. Quatre was alive, and didn't seem to be in any worse a state than lately, and that, at least, was enough to get started with. 

Purposefully (and somewhat painstakingly), Trowa opened a new window and signed into his own email. He didn't even glance at his inbox; at present he didn't care what might be in it. He started a new message and set it to CC to every single magical contact he had. It didn't matter what they might think of him. It didn't matter what they'd thought of him all along. This was about Quatre. 

_Have you heard of La Confrerie de la Lune Revere? They existed in France in the 1700's; the latest record I've come across is dated 1785. But it seems they may have migrated, and now have a presence in the U.S.. If you know anything about them, especially where they might be, please let me know as soon as possible. This is extremely important, and I would appreciate it if you would ask around to anyone else who might know._

Without taking even an instant that might allow him to rethink this, he sent the email. Then he sat back in Quatre's chair, let out a long breath, and found he was still trembling slightly. 

Quatre was alive. The sense of him had even seemed (relatively speaking) all right. Trowa had to keep telling himself this, and trying to refrain from replying to himself that if La Confrérie had done something to Quatre, 'action against you' would not be sufficient to describe what would happen; 'arson' wouldn't even begin to cover it. _Someone_ would regret daring to touch the lover of the most practiced command magician in the country.


	195. Guest Room Soap Opera Part 2b

Tuesday was much the same for Sano as Monday had been, except that he gave up texting about halfway through the day. But by the time he was done with school and work, he was so desperate for answers that he cast about for anything else he might do to get some. He scrolled, aimless and agitated, through his phone contacts again, trying to think who might know anything about what was going on, and stopped at the name of a new friend. It was a long shot, he supposed, but by now he would try anything. 

Duo had informed Sano that the number he'd given him was actually his boyfriend's, since he didn't currently have a phone of his own, so it was no surprise that it took several rings to get an answer -- the taciturn Heero had probably seen the caller name and handed the phone over. And when Duo's cheerful voice finally answered, Sano got right to the point: 

"Hey, this is going to sound weird, but have you heard from Hajime? I haven't seen him in a couple of days, and weird shit's happening." 

"He didn't tell you where he was going?" Duo wondered, sounding immensely curious. 

"So you know where he is." Sano's irritation at the déjà vu the conversation thus far impelled didn't allow Duo a chance to reply, as he then burst out with, "No, why should he tell _me_ where he's going? I'm just the friend who can feed the cats when he's got something else to do, and talk to the police for him, and go fucking insane worrying about him! Why should he tell _me_ anything?" 

"As far as I know, he's perfectly fine." Duo's tone of reassurance sounded no less curious and interested than before. "He's staying at Trowa's new house." 

"What?" Sano was so surprised that he'd already followed this up with, "Why?" before the very obvious answer -- to keep away from the police -- occurred to him. That they'd even _met_ one of the biggest celebrities in the magical world was already hard to believe; that Hajime was _staying at his house_ was next to impossible. 

"The security guard at the office last week got his name when he came in," Duo was answering, "and then when it turned out Quatre had disappeared, she remembered Hajime was there the last day anyone saw him, so then when Mr. Winner called the police, Hajime's name came up." 

"Oh." So Quatre failing to show on Friday had been upgraded to a disappearance, had it? And the police wanted to question Hajime about it, and Hajime didn't want to have to explain that he'd been visiting Winner Plastics to perform an exorcism -- yes, officer, I'm perfectly serious; no, sir, they're just normal cigarettes. It all made sense, even if the involvement of Trowa Barton -- the _real_ Trowa Barton -- still seemed improbable. But, "Why the hell couldn't he have _told_ me that?" Sano demanded of no one. 

"He wanted you to be able to convince the police that you really didn't know where he was?" Duo suggested. 

"You know," Sano replied sourly, "I might think that might have been his reason if it wasn't so totally normal for him not to tell me things. You don't happen to have Trowa's address, do you?" 

"Going to go give Hajime a piece of your mind?" 

"Yeah." 

"Man, I wish I could see that," lamented Duo. "Hang on." 

Once he had the address and an admonition to 'break a leg' that Duo might or might not have known he would be at least a little tempted to take literally, Sano set out with grim purpose. Now he was glad he'd driven to Hajime's house, since it meant he could (assuming his car would start) head straight to his next destination without working out an unfamiliar bus route and nursing his impatient irritation for however long that would take. 

His curiosity about Trowa Barton was mostly referred, but that didn't mean what he did feel was weak or transient. He was very interested in seeing this new house, since that would indicate Trowa's financial situation. What kind of money did a super-powerful immortal magician make? What kind of home would he live in? This was secondary to Sano's feelings in relation to Hajime, however. He was incredibly annoyed with the guy for letting him worry and not telling him anything about what was going on; and in addition to the annoyance, some of the worry still hung around as well for good measure. 

The house turned out to be a nice, decent-sized one in a nice neighborhood, with the forlorn look of a newly purchased home. Sano hoped Duo had given him the right address, because he didn't hesitate to park in the empty driveway and march right up to the door. And perhaps it was rude, but he first rang the doorbell and then knocked -- just in case. After not too long a wait and the sound of footsteps descending a staircase inside, the door opened to disclose Trowa Barton, and suddenly Sano was a little embarrassed. 

"Hello," said Trowa. He didn't look terribly surprised to see someone he'd barely met on his doorstep -- he mostly looked tired and unhappy -- but Sano had already noticed that his wasn't the easiest face to read. In any case, Sano had already knocked, trespassing on the property of the Trowa Barton with a minimal acquaintance with the man and a demand that really had nothing to do with him. It wasn't going to get any less awkward and embarrassing no matter what he said. He cleared his throat, preparing to explain himself. 

"You're here to see Hajime, I assume," said Trowa in the interim. 

"Yeah," Sano replied, the word emerging hoarse and abashed. 

"Come in," Trowa said unenthusiastically. This only made Sano feel more awkward, but what other option did he have? He must reassure himself that Hajime really was all right before anything else -- and if that meant inconveniencing the Trowa Barton, that was what he would do. 

Silently Trowa led him up the stairs to the balcony overlooking the entry, onto which three second-floor rooms opened. Two of them _were_ open, and beside one Trowa stopped. Before he pointed down past the second (a bathroom) to the last, closed door, Sano had a chance to see into this first room to note the full bookshelves and paper-littered table within. He wondered what Trowa was working on -- the mystery of his missing possessed boyfriend, perhaps -- but he didn't have time or inclination to pursue that curiosity very far at the moment. He said his embarrassed thanks and moved toward the final door. 

Here he didn't bother knocking; he was too worried and annoyed. And though one of these states decreased as he entered and observed Hajime, obviously just fine, seated with a book on an air mattress -- the only furnishing in the bare room -- the other increased exponentially. Hajime's phone lay atop a small suitcase, plugged into a charger at the wall beside him, clearly powered off. Moreover, the expression the exorcist turned toward Sano, though slightly curious, was otherwise perfectly calm. 

"You complete dick," was how Sano greeted him, letting the door fall from his hand as he stepped forward. 

"Hello to you too," Hajime replied with a faint smirk, setting down his book. 

"Yeah, fucking hello! Good to see you're not arrested or committed or dead in a ditch somewhere!" 

As he got to his feet and stepped off the air mattress, Hajime asked, "Did you really think any of those options were likely?" 

Sano threw up his hands in irritation at Hajime's obtuseness or whatever it was. "I didn't know _what_ was likely! How could I possibly have known?" 

"This situation isn't nearly as dramatic as you seem to think it is. There was no reason for you to be so worried." 

"What the hell is wrong with you? A client disappears -- _our_ client -- and you don't tell me, and the police think you've got something to do with it, and you don't tell me, and then _you_ fucking disappear, and all I get is _Can you feed the fucking cats?_ until the fucking police show up looking for you, and I have no idea where you are or what to say, and _two fucking days pass_, and you might be in some serious fucking trouble, and you expect me to be not even a little bit worried about this?" 

"You're dragging it out far past its logical end point. Once you found out where I was, you could have stopped worrying." 

"Yeah, maybe, _if I wasn't in love with you_." As these words burst out, unexpected probably to each man in the room, Sano's heart gave a heavy throb and started to race even as the temperature of his entire body abruptly rose. He plunged on. "Don't you get that? I love you, so I was fucking worried even after I knew where you were, OK? I love you. You probably don't want to hear that, but I've damn well said it now." 

Hajime nodded slowly, his expression having turned somewhat dark. "And I suppose you expect it to change something." 

"You know..." Sano clenched a frustrated fist. "I didn't mean to say that. I didn't come here to talk about this. I came here to make sure you were OK. But now I see you're goddamn fine, let's talk about this." 

"All right." 

"So, yes, I expect it to change something when I tell you I love you! I've been waiting _months_ to say it, _trying_ not to, wondering what I should do and what's wrong with you or what's wrong with me that nothing's happening, and now it slips out because I'm just that pissed, and, _yes_, I fucking expect it to fucking change something!" 

"Sano. You're at my house three or four days out of the week, and when your car won't start you spend the night. And I don't think most of your textbooks have seen the inside of your apartment for months." Hajime's tone held no remonstrance, only perfect seriousness. "I'm not sure what you want to change." 

Taken aback by what seemed a rather strange argument, Sano had no idea what to say next. Was Hajime _really_ unsure what Sano wanted, or just playing stupid to try to avoid the point? Well, that had been the question all along, hadn't it -- had Hajime always been aware, and just opted to be an asshole about it, or was he actually genuinely ignorant? This certainly wasn't the first time Sano had wished he could read Hajime's thoughts, but it might be the most intense instance of that desire. 

"You're right," Hajime said with a faint sigh. He looked simultaneously a little annoyed and somewhat defeated. "I shouldn't avoid the point." 

"No, you shouldn't!" Sano seized on the concession as if it were a life preserver and he drowning. "And if you know you're doing it, you've probably known all along, you bastard, haven't you?" 

"That you want a romantic relationship?" 

"God, it sounds so... formal... when you say it like that..." Sano shook his head, looking away from Hajime just for a moment as he dealt with the feeling of awkwardness that wording had instilled in him. Hajime and his professionalism... 

"How would you prefer to put it?" 

"I don't know... it's not like that's not perfectly accurate... but I don't feel like it covers everything." Sano's gaze rose again to Hajime's steadily somber expression, and he took a step closer. "I want you to want me around!" He sounded almost desperate as he began his list. "I want to feel like, even when we're annoying the hell out of each other, we're still happier there than anywhere else. I want to hear you _say_ you like me. I want--" 

"I do like you," interjected Hajime calmly. "Though I've never been entirely sure why." 

"I know! I mean, I can tell. You're a jerk, but somehow I always feel like you _do_ like me. It seems like you _do_ like having me around, and you practically treat me like family... I'm pretty sure I'm closer to you than your _actual_ family is, anyway... It already feels like we _are_ closer than friends, but... but not quite..." Again he shook his head, and took another step toward Hajime. Though he would rather fling himself across the remaining space, he didn't dare take more than one slow step at a time, as if he feared Hajime would run from him if startled. 

"And I want something physical too," he went on, "and it seems like you wouldn't even mind that, except nothing ever actually _happens_. It was, what, like, a week and a half ago when I fell asleep pretty much right on top of you, and you didn't move me for the whole second half of the movie, and when you _did_ get up... I mean, you kinda suck at being gentle, but you _were_ with me..." 

Hajime, frowning faintly, said nothing. He'd agreed to talk about this, but hadn't actually done much talking thus far. 

Sano took a deep breath. "I don't think we can keep having this both ways. Me liking you and you ignoring it, I mean. This is driving me crazy. We've been hanging out for_ever_; I've had plenty of time to get over you and just settle down to being friends or whatever, so I think if that was ever going to happen it would have already. I can't stand wanting you and not having you and at the same time not being able to get over you. I can't keep going like this. I can't be just your friend anymore. It hurts too goddamn much. But you're not into guys," he speculated, as he had speculated all along, "or you're not into _me_, or you're not..." 

Still Hajime said nothing. It fit the pattern so well it made Sano want to scream and punch the bastard in the unmoving mouth. If he would just _say something_, just explain himself even a little...! That all of Sano's emotion toward this man, built up to such a strength over the last few months, was not worth a single word of explanation, cut deeper even than the rejection he'd been fearing. 

Again he threw a hand up in despairing helplessness, and it came down to clutch at his bowed face, covering his closed eyes. "I can't figure you out. I've never been able to, and you just won't _tell_ me no matter what I say, and you know what? I can't do this anymore. I thought it might work, but obviously I was wrong. I mean, I _am_ an idiot. You're always so fucking happy to remind me of that, but never..." 

He shook his head, dislodging the hand, and turned away before he opened his eyes again so as to avoid looking at Hajime even one last time. "I'm done." Turning fully toward the door, he repeated, "I'm done. I'm glad you're OK, and I'll feed the cats, but let me know when you're coming home, because I don't want to be there. Just... Bye." And though it felt akin to tearing himself from something to which he was physically attached, breaking himself mercilessly open in the process, he started to walk away.


	196. Consummate Timing

It started with a feeling out of nowhere that she should omit the green onions, and she laughed at the unexpected strength of the impression as she removed the vegetables from the thin produce-section bag and set them on the cutting board. She liked green onions, and part of the reason she'd even decided to try this recipe was the anticipated combination of these with chicken broth and soy. And yet, as she reached for a knife to begin chopping and raise the crisp smell, she was struck yet again with the bizarrely strong thought that she would like this concoction better without green onions. 

She tended to prefer trying recipes as they were written, and deviate the next time only if she'd found some element specifically inhibiting her enjoyment of the finished product. There was no reason to strike green onions from this lineup her first time through; it would be silly and slapdash. But now with each crunching contact between knife and cutting board, the idea reiterated itself more emphatically and with more detail. Green onions were a bad addition to this recipe. She wouldn't like their texture here. They wouldn't keep well if she wanted to freeze some of this for work lunches. Better to save these ones she was chopping for the enchiladas. 

Finally her hands stilled, and she let out another laugh more puzzled than the previous. What was this, chef's intuition or something? Had her subconscious decided she was an expert master of the kitchen all of a sudden, for it to be throwing these baseless ideas at her? Well, if she was so determined, on some level or other, not to have green onions in this soup, who was she to argue with herself? With a shrug she finished chopping them and then swept them into a Tupperware container for enchilada use later. 

In the next room, Goldie started barking. Cathy turned down her cooking music a trifle and went to see what that was about. Before she had traversed even the short distance from the kitchen to the living room, however, the answer came to her: Goldie had seen a rabbit out the window and lost her head. 

Cathy paused. She'd managed to curb her pomeranian's urge to bark at every single thing in the world, but rabbits, for some reason (perhaps because they were just Goldie's size) were more than the dog could tolerate in silence. Therefore, that Goldie was currently protesting the presence of a rabbit minding its own business out in the bushes in front of the apartment was not only a perfectly natural assumption, but really the _only_ assumption. But Cathy hadn't assumed. She _knew_ Goldie was reacting to a rabbit as surely as if she'd already seen it; in fact, much in the style of a memory, she felt as if she _had_ seen it: white tail, ragged grey-brown body, round at rest and scrawny in motion... 

With a bemused smile, she went to fetch her dog off the back of the sofa. "Come on, Golden Crust, time to shut up." The glance she cast toward the night-dark outdoors revealed no lagomorphic invaders, but it didn't really matter. 

Goldie twisted in Cathy's arms to try to keep looking out the window, but she'd stopped barking as soon as she'd been lifted from her perch. Cathy filled the absence of yapping by singing along with the song that was playing in the kitchen, into which she carried her pet. There, she distracted Goldie with some little bits of chicken before leaving her on the floor under the table, turning the music back up so she could sing louder herself, and getting back to her recipe. 

Her vocalization faded, however, in the middle of what would otherwise have been a particularly satisfying held note, when she knew that Celine Dion's _The Reason_, one of her favorite pieces to accompany by one of her favorite artists to imitate, would be playing next. 

Now she was frowning. She turned from her barely resumed cooking endeavors to stare up at the iPod docking station on top of her refrigerator. All conjured visual details aside, knowing about the rabbit was one, fairly explicable thing. But this? The mix was on shuffle, as usual, so there was no way she could know what would play next. The chances of guessing were one in about six hundred -- worse than that, really, since she didn't even remember everything on there. 

For the full minute and a half or so that remained of the current song she stared, motionless, at the red iPod that looked disproportionately small between its accessory speakers, while Goldie hindlegged up toward her knee to request more chicken. Only when the strings, piano, and synthy-sounding brass thing that started next had turned center stage over to the pensive voice of Celine Dion did Cathy turn her own pensive attention to her dog. 

"Goldie," she said, "how did I know that?" She bent and lifted the pomeranian to face level and repeated, as her nose was licked, "How did I know that, Goldie Gold Rush?" After kissing the top of the little head, she replaced the dog on the floor. "No more chicken right now, baby." 

Goldie did a jumping wiggle dance in a full circle around Cathy, then ran out into the living room again. Cathy, meanwhile, threw another glance at her iPod -- and the aural equivalent of a glance at Celine Dion -- before trying to focus once more on her late dinner preparations. "Baby, you know what I mean," she sang along experimentally, and then fell silent, frowning again. 

How had she known what song would play next? How had she known what Goldie was freaking out about? How had she known not to put green onions in her soup? Why was she suddenly knowing things without having to go through the usual steps of finding out? 

The intense scrutiny she'd been giving the recipe since turning back to it had led nowhere, as the decision on how to alter the preparation steps to accommodate the lack of green onions had been put off by her wondering how she knew what she knew. Now the decision was further postponed when a jumbled set of information, like a handful of colorful beads that hadn't necessarily all broken from the same necklace, came to her just as the previous knowledge had. In this instance, however, she believed -- no, she _knew_ that the idea -- if such an incohesive collection of thoughts could be called that -- had arrived specifically in answer to her question. 

"What is all this?" she wondered pensively as she went about her mental examination. Individually, the little bits were fairly understandable; some, like the rabbit, were precise enough to call up or even provide a visual in her head. In brief vignettes that faded in and then out she saw faces, and with each came a concise encapsulation of how she felt about the person (though for the last it was merely the awareness that she didn't know him). And they, in combination, had somehow prompted or led to this thing that was happening. So far, so clear. 

This clarity provided little assistance, however. What _exactly_ did her elderly next-door neighbor, her co-workers, her newly discovered relative, and some spiky-haired guy she'd never met have to do with this odd experience she was suddenly having? She couldn't think of anything in common among the five of them. 

"Emily, Heero, Dorothy, Trowa, some guy I've never met," she said contemplatively, then repeated it twice more in a sing-song chant of curiosity as she started giving specific thought to each. 

Emily was a funny old lady that lived in #9 with her chihuahua. The latter liked to play with (and to some extent bully) Goldie when their humans met at or on the way to the nearby dog park, but accepted his mistress's fond remonstrances about his overbearing behavior, worded as if to another human, with surprising obedience. Always having been fond of Emily, Cathy sometimes took her dinner or lent a hand with her chores. 

Heero was a decent guy that generally just wanted to be left alone and do his job, an attitude Cathy respected even if she did prefer a touch more social interaction than he seemed to. He'd had a difficult time lately, what with the unpleasant behavior of one of his few friends and the sales team's seeming obsession with the matter. So far there had been very little Cathy could do to help, other than try to put a damper on any gossipy conversation she happened to have any influence over at work so as to spare both Heero and Duo the discomfort of hearing Quatre endlessly speculated about. 

Dorothy was not a bad manager, despite sometimes coming across a little like a puppeteer entertaining herself rather than an audience by trying to whip up the most interesting possible interactions among those under her charge -- which was the reason, as Cathy had overheard Heero speculating just yesterday, she was considering having Duo train with Wufei. Dorothy was somewhat strange, even without taking those eyebrows into account, and always had an air about her of knowing more than she was saying. Perhaps she too, then, sometimes knew things she had no rational way of knowing. 

And Trowa... Trowa was, for all practical purposes, still a stranger. He and Cathy had determined their relationship, at that chance first meeting in Quatre's office, by tracing their lines back to shared great-great grandparents Sinead Barton and her common-law husband Walter Young, and there was very little rhyme or reason to the closeness Cathy seemed to feel with such a distant relation she'd talked to for a few hours at most. Ever since she'd met him, she'd had this somewhat inexplicable desire to help and comfort him, almost as if he were one of her actual brothers rather than a previously unknown cousin to the fourth degree. Maybe this unprecedented sense of family had something to do with this unprecedented trickle of improbable knowledge... though she couldn't imagine what. 

Even in the midst of wondering about tonight's strange business, she still managed to hope Trowa was doing all right. If _Heero_ was having a hard time with Quatre's predicament, Quatre's boyfriend must be even more unhappy -- especially since Quatre's problems seemed to date back to that fight Trowa had mentioned they'd had the day she'd first met him. She wondered how Trowa was handling the disappearance. 

In answer -- once again, she _knew_ it was in answer to her concerned curiosity -- she got a sense of Trowa that took her breath away. Without knowing how she could possibly be so certain, she was aware all of a sudden that Trowa, this very moment, was suffering deeply. She could almost see his pale, freckled face, half shadowed by its concealing fall of hair in the darkness of some dimly lit place, concentrated in despair and helplessness. No, there was no 'almost;' she _did_ see it, briefly but clearly. Trowa was at a park somewhere, beside a grove of trees, standing stone-still and _hurting_. 

Cathy made a mournful sound as she tried to reorient herself to the things around her, remind herself where _she_ still was. "Sorry, but you're distracting," she said to the iPod as she moved to turn off the music above the refrigerator entirely. Then, just as sluggishly, she started to put away the soup components. She wouldn't be finishing this tonight; it was a little late, thanks to the shopping she'd done immediately after work, for dinner anyway, and suddenly she was peculiarly devoid of appetite. 

She still had no idea why she was knowing and seeing what she was. Something strange had started, for some reason, had entered her life without warning, and thus far she seemed to have little or no control over it. Would it continue? 

Yes, it would. 

Would it improve? 

Yes, the beginning was always the most grotesque and difficult to deal with, the time when manifestations were unbidden and unbiddable. 

"Well, that's good to know!" she said with a nod. 

Possibly, though, none of this mattered at the moment. After all, if it was going to continue and it was going to get better, she had time and optimism on her side. Others might not have such happy resources. 

Continuing her tidying efforts one-handed, she pulled out her phone and called Trowa. 

After two rings she guessed, "His phone is off;" after three, "He doesn't have it with him;" and after four, "He doesn't want to talk to anyone;" but when Trowa actually answered, with the deadest-sounding greeting she'd ever heard, she said in facetious triumph, "Ah! There you are!" 

He made no reply, so she went on. "Since you aren't willing to call your cousin when you need cheering up, your cousin has to bring the cheering up to you." 

"Cathy. That's so kind of you." He didn't ask how she'd known he needed cheering up. It was probably a pretty consistent need lately. "Today has been... bad." There was in his voice, immediately under the dullness and lack of energy, a sound of something agitated and miserable pent up and building. 

"On top of everything else lately?" she commiserated. "I'm sorry!" 

"Just now I had to overhear an argument that led to romance, and I couldn't stand it. They didn't remind me at all of myself and Quatre, but romance two doors down was too much for me; I couldn't stay to hear any more of it." 

"Of course you couldn't." 

"It was foolish of me to come _here_, though." He said it more to himself than to her. "Quatre and I came to this park the first night I met him, for a few minutes, and... I haven't seen him in a week." His volume rose slightly. "I believe most people could easily last a week, but I..." 

"You miss him and you're worried," Cathy supplied. It felt as if Trowa needed to confide in someone, needed to pour out in full whatever was weighing him down. Would he have sought anyone to hold this therapeutic conversation with if she hadn't called? 

No, absolutely not. 

Well, it was a damn good thing this silly knowing-things thing had started tonight rather than tomorrow, then. 

"Quatre is one of the most important parts of my life," was Trowa's quiet response. "Before I met him, I was... for so long... for _so_ many years..." 

He was only about Cathy's age; how many years could he possibly have spent in the state he was beginning to describe? 

The answer was no exact number, but it was very distinctly a startlingly larger span of years than Cathy had been expecting (and she was getting to the point where she _was_ beginning to expect these answers to some, at least, of her questions). Breathless, she continued listening as the anticipated outpouring seemed to build momentum: 

"I did something terrible once, something that separated me from the rest of the world and put me into a world of my own where the only thing I could do was work to make amends. There was nothing else in my life. Nothing else existed to me. Just trying to fix what I had done wrong." 

Wondering what Trowa could have done that was bad enough to be described in such terms, Cathy got the feeling Duo had been involved somehow -- and that it had, indeed, been very bad. 

"It's over now. The problem is solved, though I didn't have much to do with its solution. And Quatre is... I can hardly describe it... he was the first part of the real world to come into _my_ world -- my little, miserable world that was all about penance and had no room in it for anything that would make me happy -- and try to pull me out, now that I _can_ come out. He's not just someone I love because of his personality; he _is_ the entire world to me. He represents everything that exists outside of those 87 years and all the unhappiness and the person I was for all that time." 

There it was. 87 years. Trowa probably hadn't meant to mention that exact, mind-boggling number, but, lost now in his cathartic monologue, might have forgotten whom he was talking to. 

"He wouldn't want to hear me say that I can't live without him, but I _can't live without him_. I don't mean that I'll die if he doesn't come home or if we can't find him; I mean that what people consider 'really living' is impossible for me as I am now without him. Even with the curse broken, I would still be trapped in that other little world, I would still be that other, miserable half person if Quatre hadn't pulled me out." 

A broken curse, was it? 'Magic,' then, Cathy supposed, was the word she wanted to describe this night, utterly incredible as that seemed. And actually she was accepting it remarkable calmly -- maybe with this improbable knowledge thing that seemed to be her share in the supernatural came a heightened ability to accept the things she improbably knew. 

"And every day he's not here, I feel like I'm slipping back, losing ground. I've been working on becoming more my own person and an active part of the real world, but I'm not strong enough to stand on my own. I've made resolutions, and I'm trying just as Quatre wants me to, but I'm not there yet. I need him. I don't want to depend on him, I don't want to be a burden on him, and I think, with his help, someday I'll be beyond needing him -- but I'll never be beyond wanting him around or loving him. And right now I _do_ still need him, and I miss him for that and every other reason." 

_Sounds like **you** could do with some psychiatric help, cousin_, she didn't say aloud. He was probably well enough aware of that. 

"And listening to these people tonight talking about their relationship and how it should be changed by one of them being in love with the other... I said it didn't remind me at all of Quatre and myself, but in some ways it did -- just the fact that it was two people connecting like that, and talking about the ways they work together, and what their future should be. It made me miss Quatre so much... it was just such bad timing..." 

And then, after he'd further tormented himself by leaving for a place that would only remind him more of Quatre, the state of the night's timing had somehow reversed when Catharine had called at precisely the right moment to trigger this outpouring of thoughts and feelings that would probably otherwise have remained unproductively dammed up behind Trowa's habitually tight lips. And _that_ had only taken place because her weird knowing-things power (was it a power? Yes) had only started to manifest, in some kind of unexpected awakening, at precisely the right moment to prompt her to think about Trowa and sense his needy despair. 

Was some supernatural hand guiding this process? God? Fate? Some magical overlord? Or had Trowa's plight, perhaps, spurred his cousin's new spiritual development? Or was it all, including the miraculous moment at which it had happened, merely an unthinkable coincidence? 

To these questions, unfortunately, there came no answer. 

Meanwhile, Trowa continued to pour out his heart. "Because it wouldn't even have been so disturbing to overhear if, earlier today, _just today_, I hadn't found out that Quatre may be in danger. We thought he was hiding; we thought it was simple. He's the kindest person in the world, so of course we believed he doesn't want to face anyone while he's possessed and acting so unkindly to everyone -- it was horrible to think of him going through that alone, but it made sense." 

Possessed?? To a list that included living for 87 years and still looking 25, knowing things with no way of knowing them, and invoking and breaking curses, Cathy added demonic influence. No wonder their projected completion date kept getting pushed out! 

"But earlier I discovered that he sent a dangerous email that may have gotten him kidnapped. I know he's not dead, but I haven't been able to find out anything more than that yet -- not where he is or how he's doing or what kind of trouble he might be in. I was never very good at divination, but I'm _unforgivably_ bad at it since my drop in power." 

Cathy filed away the very useful word 'divination,' which it would have taken her some time to come up with on her own, while pitying Trowa thoroughly for considering a lack of natural talent in some area 'unforgivable' simply because it would have been a useful skill in a certain situation. She just wanted to hug him. Feed him some chocolate, maybe. 

"My computer was destroyed in the fire, so I have to sneak into Quatre's room and use his just to access the internet. I'm more helpless than ever. I thought before that this is a little like all that time I spent trying to find Duo, but now it's almost worse. I can barely divine anything, I have no computer, I'm not ready to trade favors yet, and the person I've been counting on to help me become effective and self-sufficient in some area _other_ than surviving to see the curse broken is the person who's possessed, missing, and possibly in serious trouble with a moon-worshiping cult that contains at least a fire commander and a brainwashing communicator." 

Even as she added brainwashing and the ability to command fire to the list she'd mentally headed 'Magic That Exists,' Cathy noted that this seemed to be the end of the rant. She hadn't interjected at any point, wanting neither to break Trowa's flow nor to remind him that he was talking to someone supposedly unfamiliar with the supernatural life he seemed to be so deeply entrenched in. Now she tried to think of something to say. 

Before she could, however, he cleared his throat. "Excuse me," he said in the placid tone she was more familiar with, though he also sounded somewhat embarrassed, as if he'd just come out of a deep reverie and remembered she was on the line. "I don't know what made me go on like that." 

She did. She didn't understand _why_ it had started when it had started, but the consummate timing had been everything. 

"Probably the majority of that made no sense," he went on, "and you believe I'm crazy now, but..." There was no mistaking his sincerity as he finished, "thank you for listening." 

Listening had clearly been key. Useful as some of his statements had been to _her_, with what was happening to her tonight, _he_ hadn't really needed her to understand most of what he'd said. The mere opportunity to say it to a sympathetic listener seemed to have been invaluable to him. 

"I'm happy to listen to my crazy cousin any time," she answered lightly. "But Trowa..." Despite the greatest benefit having been drawn merely from her open ear presenting itself at just the right time, she felt that what she was about to say would form a capstone to that, and be of no little importance. "Please remember that you and Quatre both have other friends! Other people care about you and want to see you be the person you want to be, and other people care about Quatre and want to see him safe. You're not alone, even without him around, and you're not the only one who wants to save him! I think you're stronger than you think you are. And even if _you_ feel like you're more helpless than ever, your friends will help. Don't forget about us!" 

After a deep breath he said slowly, "You're right. I think sometimes I feel it's not fair to rely on one of my friends the way I used to, after what I did to him, even if he has forgiven me. And I'm only just starting to think of another _as_ a close friend. But you're exactly right. I've even had strong proof of it lately, but tonight made me lose track for a while. I can count on them, and I shouldn't forget it." He'd stopped using names, she noticed; he'd recollected himself. 

"And me too!" She voiced it facetiously, but she meant it. "I'm your cousin, aren't I?" 

No, she wasn't; their precise relationship had some other name she wasn't getting at the moment. 

She did know she wasn't his mother, though. 

Trowa didn't elaborate either; how much he realized she grasped now that he wasn't quite as he'd originally presented himself, she couldn't be sure. "Thank you so much, Cathy. You don't know how much better I feel after talking to you." 

"Like I said, bringing the cheering up to you!" 

"And you don't know how much I needed cheering up after this awful day." 

"Actually, I think I figured _that_ out." 

"I can't say I'm happy, but... I'm less _un_happy. I'll survive." 

"Make sure you do! And also remember you can call me if you want to talk crazy at someone? You don't have to wait for me to call!" 

He gave a faint, sad-sounding laugh. "You're right." Then with a sigh he added, "I should check whether those two lovebirds at my house are done with their drama yet so I can get back to work." 

"They're _at your house_?" 

"Yes, one's a guest and the other showed up looking for him so they could make a scene. I have no idea what they may have been doing in my absence." 

"You should kick them out," Cathy advised. "That's so rude of them!" 

"They should eventually be useful. One of them has already been useful. And they had no idea what I've been through today and how their conversation would affect me." 

"But still, in somebody else's house...!" 

Again Trowa laughed softly, then said formally, "Thank you for your concern, and again for your call." 

Sensing that the latter would end now if she didn't say anything to prevent its doing so, Cathy briefly considered bringing up the new magical ability that had set all of this in motion. Trowa obviously knew a fair bit about magic, and could probably explain what was happening to her tonight, what circumstances involving himself and a few others had set it in motion, and what she could expect in the future -- if not necessarily whether God had had a hand in it. 

But after only a moment's thought she decided against this. She didn't know whether magic had told her what advice to offer Trowa a little earlier, and she didn't know whether magic was the impulse of her decision now, but she _was_ sure it would only add to Trowa's stress if she sought guidance and information from him tonight. The power she'd gained was odd and inscrutable so far, but not yet unpleasant or disruptive; she could get by without harassing her friend and relation about it for now. 

"Of course!" she said. "Go boot some people out of your house." 

"Good night." 

"Bye!" 

Cathy looked down at where her lap had been occupied by a yellow-orange, lion-shaved pomeranian ever since she'd wandered with her phone into the living room and sat down on the sofa. "Well, Goldie Bacon Pie," she said contemplatively, "it seems like I'm an oracle, Trowa's at least 87 years old, and Heero and Duo and Dorothy are probably all in on it. What do you think about all that, Goldie Goldmine?" 

In reply, the dog gave Cathy that happy pomeranian grin, turned a circle on her lap, and jumped down off the couch. 

"You think more chicken, I can tell." Cathy shook a finger at her pet and stood. "You are not healthy, Goldie Glutton!" Though what, exactly, she wondered, _was_ the caloric benefit or drawback of small bits of chicken to an also-small dog? 

Nothing good, apparently. 

How was she to go about getting more specific answers to things she wondered about? It seemed a fairly useless talent if all she could summon was a general sense and the occasional vague vision. 

It would involve speaking aloud. These spontaneous answers to mental questions were a sign of her awakening talent, and wouldn't last. Eventually she would have to do things properly. 

"All right, universe," she tried, "how about a more specific answer about poms and chicken?" 

No reply. 

On a whim she asked next, "Where is Quatre Winner?" 

No reply. 

She shrugged, unsurprised and undisappointed that this wasn't working for her yet. If magic ran in families, it was even possible that her divination would be, like Trowa's, unforgivably bad. And she wouldn't be quitting Winner Plastics and setting up a crystal ball stand on a corner somewhere no matter _what_ her unexpected talent turned out to be like. 

She did think she might have a look on the internet to see if anyone else had ever experienced a sudden awakening of visionary ability, and how they'd dealt with it if they had. Other options might be to talk to Heero (though much the same restraining considerations applied to him as to Trowa), to Dorothy, or to Emily next door. Oh, and she never had given much thought to the unknown young man whose face she'd seen in connection with the beginning of this affair. 

All of this might turn out to be a bit of a burden, really: an unknown, unexpected magical power, and she ethically barred from discussing it with the people that might be most helpful... a bundle of possibly confidential information having been laid on her shoulders during a friend's moment of weakness... a desire to help and support that might be far more difficult than she'd originally imagined... 

And yet dealing with burdens was something she secretly rather relished. She enjoyed a busy schedule full of responsibilities, doing her best at difficult tasks others shied from, pitting herself against challenges. She really feared very little in the world, and the positive stress induced by the importance of any given venture only honed her skills toward dealing with it. 

A need for research on an obscure topic? A set of friends not what they seemed, possibly dangerous and in danger? An awareness of the existence of cults staffed by kidnappers and brainwashers, a world into which she might, if she pursued this, be dragged? A side of herself she'd never imagined? 

Bring it on.


	197. Guest Room Soap Opera Part 3

  


Hajime had known this day would come. He'd been bracing himself for it for months. He'd watched Sano's infatuation stubbornly refusing to fade, and known that Sano would eventually demand more than he could give. And that when he refused, Sano would walk away forever, unable to continue wanting without being able to have. Hajime had known all this would happen, and believed himself ready for it. 

What he hadn't known was that it wouldn't go that way at all. 

"Sano, come back." 

What he hadn't known was that he wouldn't be able to let Sano go, no matter what it took to hold onto him. 

"Come back." 

What he hadn't known was that the desire not to hurt Sano and the inverse of wanting to make Sano happy, not to mention the unexpected awareness that his own complacency was somehow inextricably involved with this as well as with Sano's mere presence in his life, would be too much for him; that watching Sano walking away forever was simply more than he could stand, would take hold of him and force him to offer what he'd thought he could not give. He hadn't known that he'd never really known how much Sano meant to him and what that realization might impel him to do. He could never have been ready for this. 

"If all of that's what you want, you can have it." 

Sano had paused to look back over his shoulder at the first call, and turned slowly at the second. Now, his expression of near torment unchanged, he stared at Hajime in wariness that bordered on complete disbelief. 

Hajime attempted to smirk, and knew it wasn't working very well. "Change your Facebook status to 'in a relationship with Hajime Saitou' if that's what it takes to make you happy." 

"You know how I feel about Facebook," said Sano's mouth; his expression said something more along the lines of, _"That type of sarcastic bullshit is especially fucking annoying right now."_ But he took a step away from the door back toward Hajime. 

"Then at least you can text it to all your friends: 'I finally got Hajime to go out with me.'" 

"They'll never believe it. Kaoru thinks you've been trolling me this whole time and you're really secretly married or something. Katsu thinks you're stringing me along to make sure I keep helping you with shades you can't deal with." Sano sounded extremely suspicious even as he took another step closer. "Are you serious about this?" 

Excising sarcasm completely, with all the earnestness he could command, Hajime said, "I'm into you. I'm happier with you around even when you're annoying the hell out of me. I'll even give you something physical." It surprised him to find that it was, more or less, all true. "What else was there?" 

"You really are serious." This half whisper still didn't sound entirely convinced, and Sano looked wary. 

"Come here." 

Before Sano could obey (or indicate that he wasn't going to), they were interrupted by a knock. Soft though it was, it caused the imperfectly latched door to swing slowly open, revealing the owner of the house lowering his hand. He looked even more haggard than Hajime had seen him yet, and the exorcist realized with a stab of chagrin that Trowa might well have overheard much of their conversation. It hadn't exactly been quiet, nor the door completely closed. 

"I'll be out for the next few hours," Trowa said flatly -- though there seemed to be both a touch of weary resignation and a subtle sort of accusation to his tone. "If you need anything from me, call my cell phone." He didn't give them a chance to respond, but turned away so abruptly it was as if he didn't want to look at them for one instant longer. Even as he started walking up the hall he was muttering a spell, and presently the sound of his voice and footsteps cut off all at once. 

Into the ensuing silence Hajime murmured, "We've just embarrassed or annoyed Trowa Barton -- _the_ Trowa Barton -- out of his own house." 

Sano stared out of the room, mouth slightly ajar. His head was unguardedly busy with a rather comical equation between this scene and Forrest Gump dropping his pants before the president, and simultaneously hoping with a fervent, almost _magical_ intensity that somebody somewhere had the wherewithal to mend Trowa's mood before he decided to come back and get revenge for this. When Hajime cleared his throat, wanting to get back on track no matter how humiliating the prior circumstance, Sano moved quietly to close the door -- properly this time -- and turn toward him. 

And then, because it was expected of him and what the situation called for, Hajime kissed him. 

Sano, who leaned into Hajime and wrapped insistent arms around his neck, probably wouldn't have liked to know what Hajime was thinking as he went about this task: how in the world had kissing become a thing people did? What couple first decided to press their mouths together, writhe their lips against each other, and tangle their tongues in this more or less nauseating fashion? How had such an unpleasant and unhygienic activity become a sign of mutual esteem? 

He already knew, from experiences such as Sano had mentioned a minute ago involving close proximity on the sofa, that Sano's body operated at a slightly higher temperature than most people's. He could have guessed that Sano would taste like Chinese food, though he hadn't guessed and would rather not have known, since what someone's mouth tasted like should be, in Hajime's opinion, exclusively that someone's business. But at least Sano seemed to be enjoying this. However he felt about kissing, Hajime _did _enjoy Sano enjoying something. And it couldn't last forever in any case; there was more conversation to be had. 

"But, seriously, why now?" This came out in a near whisper as Sano withdrew, apparently with some reluctance, from Hajime's lips and looked into his eyes, but the rest of the demand rose into more of a rant. "It's not like it's been a big mystery all along that I wanted you like this, even though I've been trying to be subtle about it -- I mean, more subtle than I usually am about things -- because it seemed like I got better results when I wasn't outright flirting or whatever... but I think it's still been pretty obvious. But you've been ignoring it all along, I _have_ to think on purpose. So why've you changed your mind now?" 

"Because I don't really do this 'relationship' thing. But for you I'm willing to make an exception." This fragment of the real explanation might be misleading, but at least it was true. 

Sano let out a breathy laugh that was more indicative of surprise than anything else, and there sprang up out of nowhere a horizontal pink patch stretching from one of his ears all the way around to the other. "Really?" As he searched Hajime's face, clearly wondering whether the words were a lie meant to placate and distract him, this pink stripe intensified and spread. "Just for me, huh?" 

Solemnly, Hajime nodded. 

Though it hadn't actually been a lie, it did appear to have placated and distracted Sano, who now, instead of asking _why_ Hajime didn't really do this 'relationship' thing, leaned up -- almost _sprang_ up -- and kissed him again. The new volume of blood in his face seemed to have perceptibly increased the already high temperature of his lips, which was interesting; that, combined with an accompanying interest in the ferocity of Sano's movements brought on by the intensity of his emotion, made the action less tedious and distasteful than before. There was something about the fierce demonstration of Sano's desperate pleasure at being _the exception_ that rendered that demonstration, if not precisely enjoyable, at least acceptable to its recipient. 

This time when Sano withdrew, the expression he turned up toward Hajime had a touch of something that seemed almost like drunkenness about it; and the idea that Hajime specifically was a sort of intoxicant to him... well, that wasn't so bad either. 

Leaning forward again, Sano ran moist lips across Hajime's face to his ear and half whispered, "You're going to fuck me now, right?" And before Hajime could even draw breath to answer, Sano reiterated, "_Right?_" in a tone that made it clear he was accepting no refusal. So like Sano to discount entirely the possibility that agreeing to enter upon a romantic relationship did not equate to being immediately ready for sex. 

"If you insist," Hajime replied. Deciding that this wording sounded almost as reluctant as he actually was for the proposed activity, he added, "I'll do whatever you want." Which he really would, even if it killed him. He did feel the need to remind Sano, however, "Don't forget we're in someone else's house, though." 

"I don't think I'll _ever_ forget that." Sano drew back once more, embarrassed and determined. "And if I told Katsu I finally hooked up with you in Trowa Barton's house, he'd laugh my ass right out of the room. But you know what? I don't fucking care where we are. You're going to make up for all those months you made me wait and jack off all the fucking time without having any idea how you'd actually do it if you were really there." He was grinding against Hajime now, his words coming in a breathy growl. "You're going to make me come hard enough to make up for _trolling_ me all this time." 

Unsavory as was the scenario Sano described and the pictures beginning to bleed through from his eager imagination, not to mention the stirrings of reaction in Hajime's own body to the grinding, Hajime couldn't help but be somewhat amused by his new boyfriend's wanton phraseology. "I told you I wasn't trolling," he murmured, "but I'll see what I can do." 

Sano stepped back and threw a calculating look around, and at the idea Hajime was hearing pretty clearly from his head the exorcist said his name in a sharp, remonstrating tone. 

"What?" Sano demanded. "I want you to fuck me for real, and Trowa Barton's as gay as all fuck." 

"He's not likely to have any--" Hajime began, but Sano had left the room before he could finish the sentence. With a sigh, he reseated himself and began to remove his tie while he waited for the younger man's return. 

He wasn't sure what he'd gotten himself into by agreeing to this. It wasn't, after all, just a one-time occurrence: he couldn't grit his teeth and get through the coming sexual scene and then be done with the whole thing. A relationship meant a long-term commitment to a way of life and a set of behaviors he'd never planned on having to deal with again. He didn't know if he would be capable of it and hadn't merely put off the time when things would fall apart. 

But he felt no temptation whatsoever to go back on his word. His realization and ensuing statements had been completely true: he couldn't let Sano go. Whether he could return the love Sano claimed to feel for him, whether he could maintain the sort of interaction Sano wanted, whether this whole thing he was entering upon wasn't or wouldn't become an elaborate deception, he didn't know, but he did know that Sano was important enough to him that he was perfectly willing to move out of his comfort zone to make sure he kept Sano in his life. 

And that apparently meant he would be having sex with Sano in Trowa Barton's house, of all places, on an air mattress he'd purchased on the way over when said Trowa Barton had informed him of a nearly complete lack of furniture. Well, he _could_ grit his teeth and get through _that_, in the interest of knowing what he would be up against in the future. Though presumably, in the future, the severe embarrassment of being at Trowa Barton's house would be absent. 

Emotional scenes tended to break down Sano's mental defenses, so Hajime picked up on the success of Sano's venture before the younger man made it back to the room with a bottle of what appeared to be actual lube designed for sexual purposes. Based on what Hajime had understood of Trowa's current circumstances -- the burning of his previous house and the absence of his boyfriend since before the occupation of this new one -- he really hadn't expected Sano to find anything of the sort here... but he supposed that not only wasn't it even a little of his business, he should also be glad of it, since it would (in more senses than just the literal) help things go more smoothly now. 

Sano, certainly pleased about it, held up the bottle with a wickedly smug arrangement of lips and brows -- which look, however, changed rapidly to one of slightly irritated disappointment. "You already took off your tie," he protested as he again made sure the door was completely closed behind him and moved forward with no hesitation. "I wanted to do that!" 

Hajime had read this desire in Sano's head on a couple of previous occasions, and if he'd remembered it today, he might have allowed Sano to live out that peculiar little fantasy. Instead, as Sano dropped to a crouch and began to puzzle with spiky boots, he said, "Maybe next time." 

The thrill these words gave was just as evident in Sano's thoughts as from his deep but sharply indrawn breath. And if Sano was really _that_ happy at the prospect of removing Hajime's tie... well, that was no difficult indulgence to offer him. Certainly easier than the probable sequel. 

Sooner that could have been expected given the numbers of buckles and laces involved, Sano kicked his absurd footwear aside and began crawling across the air mattress toward Hajime. He came to rest -- though 'rest' was a very inaccurate term -- on top of the older man, legs straddling hips, fingers immediately busy with shirt buttons, and lips seeking out Hajime's again. Hajime responded as best he could, running his own hands up Sano's sides, considering reciprocating on the undressing front, and trying to ignore how uncomfortable Sano's resumed grinding made him feel. At least Sano's choice of pants today was not as dangerous as the boots; this could have been a good deal more uncomfortable. 

Though the sexual stimulation frankly irritated, it wasn't necessarily unpleasant to have Sano's body against his in a more general sense and to explore it with his hands. He could appreciate the casual muscularity, the admirable symmetry, the warmth, without too much trouble -- but far more than that, he could appreciate the eagerness Sano displayed that was very clearly directed specifically at Hajime. It was, he supposed, only natural to respond positively to someone else's adoration of and desire for you, even if those feelings were somewhat alien, difficult to understand, and probably impossible to return. He slid his hands under Sano's shirt. 

Eventually, after further kissing and grinding that Hajime was struggling to deal with, some tugging manipulation of clothing, and some squirming that, at least on Sano's side, was calculated to move things along, they were fully horizontal and closer to naked. And even nakedness was nothing particularly onerous... it was what people would insist on doing with it that galled. In this situation, however, Hajime was forcing himself to acclimatize. 

Actions that further reiterated Sano's eagerness to be with him bore a certain unexpected charm. It was palpably awkward that Sano, who had shifted half off of Hajime onto his side in order to reach a lubed-up hand down the back of his own loosened pants, was groaning as he presumably prepared himself for penetration; but the way Sano simultaneously rolled his shoulders toward Hajime as if trying to hug him even when that was impossible, trying to stay close and inclusive, and mouthed his arm and chest in tickly, moist, almost desperate kisses showed just how much Sano associated with Hajime the pleasure he was actually giving himself, how good it was to be here with him. 

And though, when that was finished, the strong fingers that found their way past Hajime's zipper and clasped the erection there made Hajime want to push Sano off of him and walk away, the satisfaction evident in Sano's thoughts -- as if he'd just attained some long-sought goal -- mollified the older man somewhat. He allowed himself to be stroked into greater hardness, heard his own breaths coming less evenly as moments passed, with solid forbearance, because it was what Sano wanted, because Sano obviously wanted it _so much_. 

This was, after all, not about getting through something unpleasant; it was about giving Sano what he wanted. Making Sano happy... which, in turn, for some inscrutable reason, made Hajime happy. As such, Hajime needed to start tailoring his own actions toward optimal enjoyment for Sano. So he rolled over on top of him and tried both to engage Sano in the kind of kiss Sano had thus far been the one to initiate, and to ignore that they were now right at the edge of the air mattress and liable to fall off at any time. 

The latter circumstance was rectified after not too long when they were forced to separate, panting, in order to remove their remaining garments. Had Hajime been in the frame of mind he believed generally accompanied this sort of activity -- the hazy, lust-driven mood that filled Sano's head like a hot, oily mist -- he had to think it would have been disrupted by this awkward procedure. Apparently this was no problem for Sano, though he did laugh rather charmingly at the flopping removal of pants and underwear before making a grotesque sound of anticipation at the sight of Hajime's exposed erection. 

And then he was sliding close against Hajime again, encouraging Hajime on top of him and lifting a bare leg up over Hajime's back. Though not unwilling to take charge once more, ready to grind for a while and tolerate Sano's noises in response before getting on to the actual penetration, Hajime very much wished for a couple of condoms at the moment. He wondered whether there hadn't been any wherever Sano had found the lube, or whether Sano simply hadn't considered them important. He rather doubted he could have brought himself to explore Trowa Barton's taste in condoms in any case, and supposed this was just another part of the sacrifice he was making... and perhaps a sign of how far he returned Sano's trust. 

Sano was kissing him at random, much in the same manner Hajime was thrusting against various surfaces lower down, and the young man's current thought was perceptible in his mind -- with accompanying visuals and sharply anticipated sensations -- before it emerged as a muffled, breathless verbal demand against Hajime's neck: "Come on, I am _so_ fucking ready to go." 

"Are you?" -- an inane question, and perhaps a reflexive attempt at putting off the big moment. 

In response, Sano only groaned at first, scraping his teeth against Hajime's skin as Hajime's penis scraped against the space between his buttocks and picked up some of the apparently excessive lubricant that had been applied to the area. But then he managed, "Fuuuck meee," in a tone equal parts silly insistent drawn-out vowels and growling desperation. 

"All right." Hajime found himself in the odd position of being rendered increasingly uncomfortable by the demand and simultaneously unable to keep from smiling. Sano could be winning and entertaining even at such a moment; nobody else in the world, probably, could have pushed Hajime into doing this. 

It was a dozen years since the last time he _had_ done this, and, though he'd never anticipated doing it again, he remembered well enough, and it wasn't exactly rocket science in the first place. With one hand supporting his weight on the air mattress and the other on his erection, he guided himself to Sano's anus and pushed inward. He might have worried a little about hurting Sano with his unlubricated penis, but evidently Sano had used a gallon or so of the stuff on himself and felt nothing but thorough enjoyment at the entrance. 

"Oh, fuck, Hajime," he groaned, clutching at the man above him and thrusting upward to hasten the process. Whatever he said next was too inarticulate to interpret, but the flood of mental adoration that poured from him was perfectly comprehensible. 

Here was the remembered slimy tightness, and, as Hajime began pumping in and out, the stimulation grew steadily enough to make him believe he could probably orgasm eventually -- which, despite his achievement of an erection, had been a matter of question. Perhaps he was aided by the awareness of how Sano would be likely to react if Hajime wasn't able to maintain and enhance his arousal during their _very first_ sexual encounter. 

To his own surprise, however, Hajime found himself distracted from such gloomy thoughts when he was actually, after a few minutes, somewhat enjoying the experience. 

He didn't like the way Sano's fingers dug desperately, bruisingly into him; he didn't like the way Sano's body writhed beneath him, always straining for more, more intense sensation; he didn't like the animalistic timbre of the noises that broke from Sano's trembling lips... and yet he _loved_ the message all of these combined to send, which was echoed emphatically in Sano's mind: that this contact, this apparent proof of Hajime's returned regard, was practically everything Sano had ever wanted, that some profound and very specific need was being gloriously, perfectly fulfilled by Hajime's actions right now. 

Mentally, Sano was giddily, overwhelmingly happy; physically, as he rose toward his sexual climax, still he was already satisfied as he had never been before. And to make him feel these things, to see himself as their sole and exclusive cause, Hajime too was happy and satisfied. It almost completely overrode his disgust at the expanding tension in his groin. This awful friction, these awkward movements, the suffocating smell of sweat and pre-ejaculate -- none of it was too high a price to pay to make Sano feel this good. And that was something of a shock. 

Sano's groaning whispers might have been repetitions of Hajime's name, and then again might have been as meaningless as they sounded. Even his thoughts were becoming little more than a mess of positive emotions thrown over and over at Hajime like a tangled ball of yarn in a soft, absurd, repetitive beating. Sano was drawing closer and closer, and something attempting to shout louder than the chaos in his head, still struggling for coherency, urged him to wait for Hajime, to try to achieve that romanticized and highly improbable mutual orgasm. 

"Don't hold back," Hajime murmured, and kissed him. Not only had he no desire to draw this out more than necessary, he also looked forward to Sano reaching his peak for more reasons than just that it would be the penultimate milestone on this ambivalent road. 

Again Sano groaned, in another apparent attempt (failure) at saying something intelligible, and was clutching even more greedily than before; in fact he'd wrapped _both_ legs around Hajime's waist for an awkward entwining that would have been logistically inconvenient had the air mattress not deflated slightly and put them in a sort of trough that was perfect for their present positioning and movements. 

Hajime supposed he should have been paying attention to things like hip angle and what specific arrangement of bodies Sano enjoyed most, so as to make this even better for him, but that kind of nonsense really was asking too much of him during their first sexual encounter. It also didn't seem to matter; as Sano's clinging kept Hajime in such close, swift-moving contact with himself at every moment, it was evidently enough. He stiffened, arching upward, crying out, spasming in his pleasure. 

The mental feeling of Sano's orgasm wasn't nearly as interesting as Hajime had hoped; instead of a burst of joy to correspond with the burst of bodily ecstasy, it was a white blankness that, while certainly happy, was more distracted by the physical than involved with it. Even so, he was pleased to have induced such feelings in Sano. 

The latter now loosened his grip, grinning slackly up, gripping with his legs yet but content to lie back somewhat and let out another string of breathy vowels in time with Hajime's continued thrusts. His eyes, bright even in the shadow Hajime cast over him, blinked only occasionally to interrupt their rapt stare at Hajime's face. They were such a rich shade of brown, these eyes, sparsely lashed but perfectly shaped, and Hajime did not at all mind returning their gaze as he tried to finish up this business. Sano was still _so happy_. 

He'd also tightened abominably around the foreign organ inside him; Hajime remembered this increased pressure as one of the worst parts of being the penetrator in anal sex, and hoped he could get through it. He believed, inexpert a judge as he must be, that he was fairly close to his own orgasm but that concentrating on it would be counterproductive. So he concentrated instead on the returning order in Sano's mind, the untangling of all those positive emotions and the straightening out of all those happy thoughts -- none of which suffered any diminution for their increased clarity. He let Sano's happiness wash over him and distract him from everything, and eventually the moment came. 

He couldn't quite help a deplorable grunting sound, but did manage to withhold any indication of his distaste at both the sensation and the positively gruesome awareness that he'd just shot semen up into Sano's rectum. Then he took a deep breath and stilled, forcing himself not to pull out so quickly that his discomfort would be evident in the movement. Simultaneously he was congratulating himself on surviving this ordeal. 

But the ordeal hadn't quite ended. Sano was petting his hair and neck, still breathing loudly and happily, and Hajime was pricklingly aware that one of those hands of Sano's had, not long ago, been exploring regions significantly less hygienic. In fact a general desire to make use of the bath in the next room was growing with shudder-inducing quickness and intensity in Hajime. A cigarette would be delightful as well, but he had neither any with him nor permission to smoke in this house. With an iron will he restrained his urge to get up and leave. 

He did, however, ease his penis out from where he felt it should never be (but where it would undoubtedly spend some time in the future), slide his arms around Sano again, and settle into a more comfortable position. Some standards of cleanliness (no petting of hair with fingers that had recently occupied anyone's ass!) would have to be established for future encounters, but at the moment he wasn't going to ruin Sano's enjoyment of the scene. 

And his own, really. This hadn't been so bad. Well, it had been bad, but not intolerably so, and its wonderful aspects had at least balanced if not outweighed the horrible. At the moment Hajime was actually fairly content; if he could ignore the discomfort of what people that liked this sort of thing called 'afterglow' and of his awareness of sexual fluids potentially leaking or smearing onto his proposed bed for the night, he even enjoyed lying here with Sano in his arms feeling Sano's intense satisfaction and anticipation of times to come. 

"I hope that made up for the trolling," Hajime murmured at last. 

"Mmm, not really." Sano stretched, rubbing his body languidly against Hajime's as he turned his face toward him. "But it was a good start." And he kissed Hajime just as languidly. This prevented him from finishing his statement verbally, but Hajime caught, faintly, the remainder of it in his head, around which the shields had been gradually reforming: _I mean, it was **really** good, but it only lasted, like, ten minutes or something, and I bet we could go twenty times that long._

Thankfully Sano hadn't said this aloud, since how to respond would have been an unpleasant mystery Hajime might not have been able to solve. He was impressed with himself for managing to orgasm after only, like, ten minutes of stimulation, and simultaneously appalled at the idea of having to attempt to put up with sex for twenty times that long. And what else would Sano demand of him? He would probably want to do the penetrating on occasion, and then there was fellatio and anilingus and god only knew what. Well, Hajime would just have to draw a line somewhere. 

But it wouldn't be a line debarring sex entirely. He wouldn't deny Sano that. And maybe this wouldn't have to be as much of a deception as Hajime had been fearing. He had, after all, legitimately enjoyed some aspects of tonight's encounter, and felt he could manage to make sex with Sano a part of his life. He could and would do what was required to keep Sano with him, to keep Sano happy. 

Finishing at last the lingering kiss that had allowed Hajime time for all these thoughts, Sano drew back a bit and sighed contentedly. "Yeah," he said in a luxuriating tone, "I think I could stand to do that a fucking lot from now on." 

And he undoubtedly didn't recognize the complete lack of facetiousness in Hajime's reply, "I think I could too."


	198. Guest Room Soap Opera Part 4

  


The most infuriating thing was that then Sano had to go home. Back to Hajime's house, anyway. He'd run off in such an outraged state of worry and confusion, he hadn't given any thought to the cats' dinner -- and if he _had_ thought about it, he would never have guessed that a situation might arise wherein he would be tempted to put off returning to the hungry familiars in favor of having sex with Hajime again. And then maybe again. 

The other problem was that Hajime pretty clearly didn't take much pleasure from the fact that they'd celebrated the upgrade to their relationship in somebody's guest room -- especially given who that somebody was -- and probably wouldn't have been willing to have sex again (and then maybe again) in that venue in any case. Though he'd seemed ready enough to cuddle Sano on the air mattress for a good long time, he'd also seemed to want a shower very much as well. Evidently he was going to be a fastidious lover; Sano couldn't say he was surprised. 

And the cats still needed to be fed. This and the awareness of morning class (for which all his things were at Hajime's house) had forced the very reluctant Sano out. 

Despite the severe annoyance of having to drive home, Sano barely remembered the drive home. There had probably been stoplights and other motorists and... gasoline... and stuff. Obviously his car had started without too much trouble. Hopefully he'd worn his seat belt. It was all more than a bit of a blur. At the moment he was standing in Hajime's kitchen, not quite sure how he'd arrived there, watching the cats eat food he wasn't quite sure when he'd given them, grinning in a mixture of dreaminess and triumph and savoring the last of the sensations fading throughout his body. 

_"For you I'm willing to make an exception."_

The sensations in his heart weren't fading. 

He was tempted to do what Hajime had suggested and text an all-caps, possibly multi-message announcement to everyone that had ever put up with his complaints about his lack of progress in this area -- or even actually sign onto Facebook for once and change his relationship status. But he held off for the moment. He was thinking about Hajime's lips on his neck. He would, of course, relate the gleeful news to his friends after while, and rejoice in so doing and in their reactions, but right now it was too close, too precious to share with anyone. 

_"I'm into you. I'm happier with you around even when you're annoying the hell out of me."_

It wasn't as if Sano had never been in a relationship before, never believed himself in love before. But he'd never had to wait this long for someone he liked this much, and he'd never had anyone make so much of a concession for him. Though it hadn't been overtly stated, he thought he had the answer to the question he'd been silently asking for so long: his interest had been ignored all this time because Hajime disliked relationships. 

That... that Sano really should have predicted. Hajime had moved to a different country to get away from his family and admitted, as far as Sano knew, a total of two friends. _Maybe_ two and a half. And yet, when push came to shove, he would go against his own evidently fairly strong disinclination and accept Sano as his lover. Make an exception just for Sano. Who knew perfectly well that Hajime Saitou wasn't much given to making exceptions. 

_"Don't hold back."_

If he concentrated, he could still call up the sensations of Hajime touching him, kissing him, fucking him... he could still smell him. Of course this might have something to do with the fact that he was in Hajime's home, but the memories were so visceral it seemed like more than merely that. 

A shower here to supplement the handwash Hajime had insisted upon at Trowa's house might have been a good idea, but that scent Sano swore he could still detect all over his own body was, at the moment, something he could not bear to lose. Besides, such considerations barely registered through the preoccupied felicitous haze in which he currently operated. Maybe tomorrow. For now, happily brazen, he stripped off his clothing for the second and less interesting time tonight and, after a trip to the toilet that was as far as he was willing to recognize mundanity, crawled into Hajime's bed. 

With hands behind his head on the pillow, he stared up toward the ceiling, but his line of sight was broken by memories like visions that arose in front of his eyes: Hajime's expression when he called Sano back, having finally made the choice to accept him in full spite of his own habits... Hajime waiting for him on that air mattress, having done the unthinkable and actually removed that uptight tie of his... Hajime's gorgeous eyes boring into Sano's from above as he finished inside him, having just made him come if not _quite_ hard enough to make up for all the lonely masturbation at least pretty damn satisfyingly. 

_"I do like you."_

"You really do, don't you?" 

Misao, who had curled up beside Sano on top of the blanket at some point completely unnoticed by him, wondered now what he meant. He reached down to pet her, scratching her head absently as he replied that he hadn't been addressing her. 

He'd begun mentally reliving the entire evening, in the level of detail with which only that kind of exquisitely indelible event can be recalled -- earlier, more aggravating parts not excluded -- and gotten as far as the extremely embarrassing entrance of Trowa, when noise arose from the pocket of his pants on the floor. 

The tone he'd set for text messages from Hajime, a cheesy harp sound that had come pre-loaded on the phone, had felt appropriate not even remotely for Hajime's personality but for the silly sense of romantic longing it seemed to convey. Hearing it now, Sano let out a cry of triumph and joy. He would have to change it -- he would definitely change it to something more befitting his _official boyfriend_ \-- but at the moment it carried vindication of his long wait and congratulations for tonight's events. 

Misao expressed annoyance at being disrupted from her comfortable position as Sano scrambled up and leaned over the side of the bed to find his forgotten phone, but his placating reply trailed off into distraction as he unlocked the device and read the message Hajime must have sent once he was done with his much-desired shower: 

_Thanks for the 67 texts. I apologize for being inaccessible. It won't happen again._

The same stupid grin Sano was pretty sure he'd been wearing since he'd left Trowa's house now widened perceptibly as he typed, _I can forgive you for just about anything right now._

_So if I wanted to stab you again..._ Hajime suggested. 

Sano wished he could convey an eyebrow vigorously pumped, or at the very least a licentious tone, with his reply, _Depends on what kind of stab we're talking._

_Idiot_, Hajime sent. 

Sano flopped onto his back again, laughing out loud in his delight and then continuing to grin up at the phone he now held above him. _This is so high school. Where you go to a friend's house whose parents aren't home so you can fuck and YOUR parents won't know, and then you go home before curfew and text about it all night?_

_Somehow I'm not surprised you were doing that kind of thing in high school._

_And YOU weren't?_ Immediately he'd sent this he rethought it. _No, of course you weren't, kouhasan, why would I even ask._

_Idiot._ Sano had liked being called 'idiot' by Hajime (some of the time) for quite a while, since it had often seemed, counterintuitively, a sign of friendship. But he'd never thought he would come to love the sound (or in this case the look) of it quite_ this_ much. 

_Idiot's going to sleep in your bed by the way_

_Feel free._

Mentioning the bed had raised a question. _Also by the way, why Trowa Barton's house? If you went to a hotel, we could be fucking again right now._

_No, we couldn't. You wouldn't have found me at a hotel._

_Not with you not answering your damn phone!! So you went to TB's house SO I could find you?_

_No, it was because Gains from Seido called and offered me a place to stay while the police want to talk to me. I had to be able to tell him I was already staying with a friend._

On reading this, Sano sat up again, giving the not-so-good news the first frown he'd worn since before Hajime had kissed him. He supposed Hajime's choice made some sense, under the circumstances... though he could already think of other options that might have been more convenient. At some point he would have to ask Hajime why Trowa Barton's house in particular had seemed the best place to go. Not right now, though; anything to do with Seido was a spectacular buzz-kill. So the only remonstrance Sano offered at the moment was, _You should TELL ME about shit like that instead of making me worry._

_Are you saying you're dissatisfied with how tonight has turned out?_

_Haha no._ Now he was able to smile again, and to pet Misao when she crawled into his blanketed lap. The message he then composed one-handed would certainly have made him blush if he'd been saying it face-to-face, but in writing seemed calmly straightforward: _I hope you're happy with it too_

Hajime's reply was gratifyingly immediate: _I am._

_I meant when I said I love you_, Sano told him. 

This time the response was not quite so quick. _I hope you know that saying that puts you at risk of not having it said back._

Sano didn't stop smiling at this, but he felt the expression go a bit wan. He hadn't really expected Hajime to pour out his heart or whatever... but he wouldn't have objected. _Well we already figured out that you suck at telling me stuff._

_And yet you love me anyway._

Here Sano made an indignant sound, which was echoed by the cat in his lap at his cessation of caresses. He didn't resume just yet, though, since he wanted both hands to hasten the composition of his protest. _Hey, it is completely unfair to say you can't say you love me and then turn around and give me shit about saying I love you._

_Your definition of "unfair" is so elastic._

Sano wasn't sure how to reply to this, and a little annoyed at the turn of the conversation -- which feeling threatened to translate to dismay under the current circumstances. But he'd barely resumed petting Misao, and hadn't yet decided what to say, when another message arrived: 

_Sano, it is very important to me to have you in my life._

Just as if Hajime had actually been in the room speaking aloud, Sano could hear the words in his boyfriend's deep voice, Japanese accented, perfectly serious, devoid of any of the sarcasm that often colored it. And while not a declaration of love, still the statement meant the world to him. He wondered if Hajime knew just how much it meant to him. 

_I guess that will do for now_, he sent. Then, staring at the words, he found another frown on his face as he decided he was not at all satisfied with that reply. _Wow, that looks so cold_, was his addendum. _I mean I'm really happy to hear that, it really IS good enough for now._ After another moment's thought he added, _REALLY good._ And then, _REALLY REALLY GOOD._

_Does each "REALLY" have a cumulative effect?_ Now it was amusement Sano could hear in Hajime's words as easily as if he'd actually been there. 

_Yes, 10x_, he replied at once. 

_So is that 100x or 1000x good?_

Again Sano laughed out loud. _Now YOU'RE being an idiot_

_You must be rubbing off on me. Maybe this isn't such a good idea._

_DON'T YOU DARE_, Sano texted fiercely, replying with very serious insistence to what he believed (hoped!) had been only a facetious threat. 

_All right, fine_, Hajime answered. _But I AM going to stop texting you so you can go to sleep. I know you have class in the morning._

_First tell me I won't wake up and find out this was all a dream._

_You tracked me down intending to (try to) beat me up, then embarrassed the hell out of me in front of Trowa Barton. That sounds more like a nightmare to me._

While this was actually a fairly reassuring response to Sano's demand, part of it _had_ to be picked at. _What's that (try to)?_

_Consider the last time we fought. Actually consider every time we've fought._

_You're a bastard._

_And you still claim to love me._

Sano wondered if this teasing regarding his professions of love was going to become a problem. At the moment it didn't significantly bother him; in fact he was glad of the banter, and glad to have his true feelings out in the open at last... but if Hajime kept it up, it might become somewhat painful. It seemed to imply a real disdain for the emotion, which in turn implied that not only was whatever Hajime felt for him at this point _not_ love, it might never be. 

But Sano refused to think about that right now. And in fact the next message from Hajime, on the heels of the more worrisome one, distracted him: _Go to sleep. I'll call you in the morning. What time do you want to wake up?_

It was exactly the promise Sano needed, and probably the only thing that could get him to abandon this conversation instead of continuing literally all night. _Seven_, he replied. 

_I'll talk to you then. Good night._

_Good night._ There was something oddly and delightfully intimate about exchanging these wishes after what had evolved between them. Even via text, 'good night' meant something different now. It meant what Sano had always wanted it to mean. 

He wondered, as he set his phone on the nightstand and then lay down again, how long Hajime would stay at Trowa Barton's house -- how long it would be before Sano could make the use of this very bed that he'd yearned to since March... undoubtedly, somewhat depressingly, not until some new development occurred in the situation with Quatre Winner. Between now and then, it seemed unlikely that any further sex could occur between him and his lover. Indeed, Sano wasn't sure he could bring himself even to _visit_ Hajime at that place, could manage to look Trowa Barton in the face any time soon after having searched his sparse bedroom for lube and actually found it. 

But knowing that Hajime did care about him, knowing what had already passed and what would come to pass, made him strong. Phone calls and texts, probably limited to off-hours when the police weren't likely to try calling, would do for a while. _Sano, it is very important to me to have you in my life_, he felt, would make him remarkably patient. 

Again absently, he petted once or twice the cat that had settled against his stomach when he'd turned onto his side. He'd believed he wouldn't be able to fall asleep with so much to think about, with the memories of this evening still so strong and the scent of Hajime still so perceptible around him, but found as he closed his eyes that he was surprisingly drained -- a good kind of drained that seemed ready to pull him straight into placid depths. 

And, though in his startlement at the unaccustomed ringing of his phone at 7:00 in the morning he did not immediately recall how beautifully everything had changed, it all came rushing back to him when the first thing he truly comprehended upon awakening was a beloved voice saying, "Good morning, idiot. It wasn't a dream."


	199. La Confrérie de la Lune Révéré Part 36

They hadn't seen Trowa since helping him move over the weekend. It would have been logical to assume he had been reveling in again occupying a home of his own, though he'd only been in theirs for just over a week -- Heero and Duo had certainly thoroughly celebrated _their_ renewed privacy -- but, unfortunately, the email Heero had received last night indicated that Trowa's solitude had been short-lived and his time in the new house, thus far, unhappy. 

It had begun by informing him that Quatre, before he'd disappeared for his 'vacation,' had sent a message to La Confrérie de la Lune Révéré letting them know that he had been the one to destroy the artifact. Trowa had tried divination after divination, apparently, hoping to find out for sure where Quatre might be and whether La Confrérie was involved in his disappearance, but something (or some_one_) was blocking his attempts. 

The second half of the email, though perhaps less worrisome -- even, possibly, somewhat reassuring -- was more thought-provoking still: 

_I was talking to that exorcist, Hajime (he is staying at my house for the moment because the police want to question him and he would rather avoid that), about what I was trying to divine, and I realized he was under the impression that we must have known all along where Quatre is and were only trying to determine how to get him back or how to get to him._

_He was surprised when he learned we don't know where Quatre is at all, because apparently your coworker Dorothy, who refers necrovisual cases to him, is an accomplished diviner. All of my divinations regarding La Confrerie and Quatre's whereabouts are being blocked, so I don't know if she can do us any good, but since she knows Quatre personally, she might be worth a try. Would you ask her if she would perform some divinations for us?_

This information conjured some guilt in Heero for a couple of reasons. First, he might have prevented the necessity for Hajime to hide out at a near stranger's house (and destroy that near stranger's newly attained privacy) if he had thought to say something about the exorcist on a couple of different occasions. The police must have heard that Hajime had visited Quatre's office on the last day Quatre had been seen, and it wouldn't be a lot of fun for Hajime to explain what he'd been doing there with a sword. Heero and Duo had told the police they'd been waiting for Quatre on Friday to join them for dinner with some friends; if they'd mentioned the names of those friends, Hajime might never have been sought for questioning. 

Next, Heero had long been aware that Dorothy was a diviner, but that awareness had always stayed in the back of his head as something he didn't need to care about. If he'd remembered it earlier, they might be three steps ahead of where they were now. Of course he couldn't know how 'accomplished' she really was, and, as Trowa had mentioned, something was blocking divination on this subject... but it was an avenue worth exploring. Any and every avenue was worth exploring with Quatre's safety potentially on the line. 

So, for a second time, he kept a sharp lookout for Dorothy on Wednesday morning as they pulled into the parking lot. There was no sign of her all the way inside, and Heero had already parted with Duo (with the same promise as last time: to tell him all about it at lunch) before he encountered her -- at her desk, and in the middle of a professional conversation even at 7:59. 

Heero waited impatiently nearby, passing the time by working through surrounding thoughts, cataloguing them as he'd been actively practicing lately. Of course many of them were about Quatre, to match his own, so this wasn't much of a distraction. 

It still irritated him that his connection with his best friend provided no concrete way to assist in this situation. He'd glanced at the website Hajime had referred him to, and noted that it would probably, as the exorcist had suggested, be very profitable -- but that first glance had told him nothing about the specific things he would like to accomplish right now with this ambivalently useful power of his. He needed to look through the site more thoroughly and see if there was anything on there about helping someone close to you with nightmares or telepathically connecting from afar with someone else close to you. 

Finally Dorothy finished her conversation. It occurred to Heero that he'd now wasted nearly ten minutes doing almost nothing, and that, if Quatre had been here, he might have faced some trouble for it -- but it didn't matter; that Quatre _wasn't_ here was the entire point. Purposefully he advanced on the Sales Manager, noting her expectant and somewhat amused expression at his hovering. 

"Yes?" was all she said. How much she knew about what was going on Heero didn't know or really care. 

"Quatre's missing." He spoke quietly, not wanting to contribute to the chaos of gossip that already existed in the near vicinity. "He disappeared before we could get him exorcized." 

Dorothy looked a little surprised. "Oh, I thought he must be taking some time off to recover," she said. "Where has he gone?" 

"We don't know. There's a possibility he may be in some trouble, and we were hoping you could do some divinations for us to help figure out where he is." 

"Of course," she replied immediately with a sharp smile. "I'm quite interested in Quatre's condition." 

Heero let out a relieved sigh. "Apparently there's some divination-blocking going on." 

"Excellent!" As usual, she sounded far more intrigued -- and in this case anticipatory regarding the challenge -- than concerned or sympathetic. 

"Can you stay late tonight?" 

"Much as I'd like to, no," she replied. "I have to pick up my niece immediately after work and keep her all night." 

Heero took a deep breath. Why did they always have to _wait_ for people to help them on this? But he couldn't demand that Dorothy rearrange her schedule for them, and it wasn't exactly guaranteed she would be able to assist them in any case. "I'll tell Trowa," he began. "Maybe--" 

"Trowa?" The edge in her voice suggested sudden engagement. 

"Trowa Barton," Heero confirmed. "Quatre's boyfriend." 

"_The_ Trowa Barton?" 

"Yes." 

For a moment she was silent, and for Heero to say he could practically hear the thoughts racing in her head was less a figure of speech than it would have been for many others. "He must have been the one who cursed Duo," she said at last, almost to herself. "That explains why it was so powerful and long-lasting." 

Heero nodded. 

She fixed him with an accusatory look. "You never mentioned that." 

"No," Heero agreed. He was tempted to ask why her divinations on the subject of Duo's curse hadn't informed her of this, if it was something she would be that interested in knowing, but he held his tongue. 

"Well!" She seemed a little annoyed with him now, but her next statement was actually more promising even than if she'd been particularly happy with him. "I could go pick up my niece and bring her back here. She's interested enough in magic that it shouldn't hurt to have her here for a few divinations." 

Heero wondered a little how old this niece was, and whether her parents knew that the babysitting aunt didn't mind exposing her to serious situations involving magic, but he doubted it was any of his business. He just said, "Thank you," very sincerely. "I'll let Trowa know." 

Dorothy's eyes glittered. 

"We're going to meet after work in Quatre's office. We'll tell you all the details then." 

"Don't let the team know you have a key to Quatre's office," Dorothy smirked with a slight gesture at the room around them. "It'll just be more evidence that you were dating him." 

"I don't have a key to Quatre's office," Heero replied somewhat coolly, not entirely appreciating her attitude about all of this even if he was grateful for her promised assistance. "I have a command magician." 

"Of course." Dorothy's smile widened. "Trowa Barton can probably get into anyone's office he wants." 

"Like I said, Trowa is _actually_ dating Quatre. This is very important to him. And to me. And Duo." 

"Well, you can tell Mr. Barton I'll be there." Again her eyes seemed to sparkle with extreme interest as she said the name. Despite the emphasis of Heero's words, she didn't acknowledge the seriousness of the situation. It reminded him of how Duo had behaved at first -- but in Dorothy's case, it was probably more that she lacked natural sympathy than that she didn't respect potential negative outcomes. "It will probably take me about forty-five minutes to pick up my niece and get back here, so expect me just before six." 

"Thank you," Heero said again, and the irritation she had impelled didn't lessen his sincerity. "I'll see you then."


	200. La Confrérie de la Lune Révéré Part 37

Despite everyone's best efforts, Trowa had looked unhappy pretty consistently lately, and no wonder. Duo knew that, in addition to being upset about Quatre's condition -- and actively afraid for him now his absence had been cast into such an ambiguous light -- Trowa had also been seriously considering, even rethinking, aspects of his own character, which could induce a somber mood in anyone. At the moment, though, Trowa looked more particularly unhappy than usual, with traces of disturbed agitation and some annoyance in there as well. 

Duo went over to him and threw a friendly arm across his shoulders. "What's going on, Trois?" he asked. "What's wrong?" 

Trowa's faint facial expression deepened into a definite scowl. "I had a soap opera in my guest room last night. Given what's going on right now, it was... difficult to listen to." 

That second statement made Duo feel slightly guilty. "You OK?" 

"Yes," Trowa sighed. "After what I found out about Quatre yesterday and then _that_, I was very upset last night... but I'm doing much better now." 

"Sorry," Duo said, squeezing Trowa's shoulders. "I should have warned you... Sano called us last night trying to figure out where that exorcist boyfriend of his was, and then he stormed off to tell him what he thought of him going to hide out at your house without telling Sano where he was going." 

"Well, he did that," said Trowa. "And 'boyfriend' now appears to be the correct term, though it wasn't before." 

This time Duo couldn't restrain his grin. "I was _so_ curious. Man, I wish I could have heard that conversation." 

Trowa shook his head dourly, but before he could make any further comment, the door opened. 

Heero and Duo, as instructed by Trowa, had stationed themselves after work in Quatre's office, in the hopes that divinations about Quatre would be more successful in a room that bore his psychic imprint. Trowa, when he'd arrived just a few minutes ago, had brought a box of candles -- Duo wasn't sure whether they were preserved from the old house or newly purchased -- and set it on Quatre's desk, so they were about as ready as they could be and only waiting for the actual diviner. 

Now, as she entered, Duo felt his own tenseness increase. None of them knew whether Dorothy could be any help here, or, if she turned out to be, what they would learn from her divinations this evening -- but Duo had his fingers crossed. This was, of course, in part because he loved having the ability to cross his wonderfully separable fingers, but the wish for good luck, for a positive answer to both questions, was also sincere. 

Dorothy was accompanied by a girl of perhaps eight, who looked around the room with curious, calculating eyes. Duo smiled at her, but her gaze crossed him too quickly for her to notice (or at least to return) the expression. One thing he might be willing to admit he missed about the long doll years -- if in a sort of paranoid, almost superstitious reluctance to do any such thing he was willing to admit to _anything_ positive about the experience -- was the opportunity to spend so much time with children. Happy as he was with his life now, he sometimes regretted that loss. 

"Why don't you sit here?" Dorothy suggested, having pulled one of the chairs beside Quatre's desk into a position from which its occupant could easily watch whatever went on in the office in the next few minutes. 

The little girl nodded her red-haired head and took the place indicated, folding hands in her lap and fixing her attention on the others in the room in a remarkably mature-looking gesture. Dorothy's gesture, on the other hand, was remarkably predatory-looking as, satisfied with her niece's behavior, she turned toward Trowa. 

"Mr. Barton," she said. "I can't tell you how happy I am to meet you. Ever since I heard about the amazing work you did for the Whitley family -- I think I was still in high school at the time! -- I've wanted to meet you. Dorothy Catalonia." 

Trowa accepted her warm, lingering handshake with a nod. "I can't say I appreciated the Whitleys publicizing that," he said, "but it's over and done with now. Hajime tells me you're a very good diviner." 

"I wouldn't have thought there was anything I could help you with," Dorothy replied curiously, letting go of Trowa's hand at last, "though I'm certainly happy to try." 

"My divination is very weak," was Trowa's blunt response. "Normally that wouldn't be a problem, but right now I need to know where Quatre is." 

"I'm impressed that someone as powerful as you are is willing to admit weakness in some area." Dorothy's expression held genuine admiration, and she'd clasped her hands together so tightly they'd drained of what color her pale skin had. It was, Duo thought, a little creepy. 

"I'm not necrovisual at all either," Trowa said somewhat dryly, and turned toward the desk. "I don't know if candles are your style, but I brought what I have." 

"Oh, excellent." More businesslike now, Dorothy moved to join Trowa. "Heero told me someone is blocking." 

"I assume it's deliberate, but I could be wrong," Trowa nodded. 

Dorothy gave him another appreciative look, but quickly transferred her attention back into the box on the desk. "And what are these?" 

"All the records I have of the group I believe is blocking." Trowa lifted a slim book and a manila envelope from among the candles and set them on the desk. "I think Quatre may be with them." 

Briefly but carefully, Dorothy flipped through the stiff pages of the old book. Then she lifted her eyes, clapped her hands, and said, "All right! Let's have the whole story!" 

As Trowa told it, Duo moved restlessly around the room, impatient to get started but knowing this was a necessary step. Trowa explained about La Confrérie de la Lune Révéré and what he knew of them while Duo looked out the windows onto the parking lot and nearby buildings; about the artifact and its creation and destruction while Duo reexamined the digital picture frame on the desk, picking it up and putting it back down again; about Quatre's possession by the power of the artifact brought somewhat to life or undeath by the hypothetical anger of La Confrérie while Duo looked over the books -- mostly corporate literature -- on Quatre's shelves; and about the most recent emails Quatre had sent before he disappeared while Duo tried again to get the little girl in the chair to smile at him. 

In the latter endeavor he succeeded this time, but the kid's smile was as calculating as her initial glance around the room had been. Duo was starting to think she might be every bit as creepy as her aunt. 

Heero, who hadn't spoken and had barely moved in quite some time, now took Duo's hand and drew him to stand at his side -- undoubtedly wishing Duo would hold still. Duo squeezed the hand and didn't let go, and tried to stop fidgeting. 

"So this group..." Experimentally Dorothy said the name, and her French pronunciation sounded better than Trowa's, though Duo couldn't be sure. "When they learned that Quatre destroyed this artifact they practically worshipped, it's possible they kidnapped him for some kind of revenge." 

Trowa confirmed this summary with an emphatic, "Exactly. He's alive -- or was when I asked an hour ago -- but I need to know _where_." 

In the same experimental tone she'd used to speak La Confrérie's full title, but now in the magical language, Dorothy said, "Where is Quatre Winner?" 

Everyone in the room was tense and silent for a long moment, and Duo struggled not to start moving aimlessly again. For his part, there was no answer whatsoever to the divinatory question, and when he glanced at his boyfriend he received a shake of head to indicate that Heero was having the same experience. 

But a slow, fascinated smile had spread over Dorothy's face as her strange eyebrows contracted somewhat and lowered. "Did you feel that?" she wondered. 

Trowa nodded. "It's the same as before." 

Again in the magical language she asked, "Where is La Confrérie de la Lune Révéré?" 

This time Duo thought he could faintly make out what they were talking about: a dim muffled feeling, as if some answer should be manifesting but was cloaked from his senses. Not being a diviner himself, he'd never before, as far as he was aware, personally encountered divination-blocking, so this made for a fascinating experience. 

Dorothy chuckled in triumph and increased interest. "Yes, it's the same block. How stupid -- if they don't want anyone to know they're connected with Quatre somehow, they shouldn't have the same person blocking divinations about him and divinations about them." 

"Maybe they only have one diviner capable of blocking," Trowa mused. 

Purposefully, Dorothy started unloading candles from the box. As she did so, Duo was able to see that they were, in fact, the same ones Trowa had employed for the useless ritual he'd performed in March trying to figure out how to break the curse. Oh, but it hadn't been entirely useless, had it? Now that Duo thought back, he recalled that it had been their first indication of Heero's magical talents. He threw a grinning glance at his boyfriend, who returned the smile wryly. 

When Duo turned back, he found Dorothy holding an armful of candles toward him. "Set these out," she commanded. 

Moving forward to take them from her, in which he was joined by Heero, Duo noticed there were more than five; Trowa must have brought the whole collection, which probably amounted to ten or fifteen. "Do you want them aligned or staggered or what?" he asked. 

Dorothy glanced critically at the position of the furniture in the room, then pointed rapidly to five different spots. "Aligned." 

As Heero and Duo shifted chairs (including the red-headed girl) and arranged the candles in as even a set of five points as they could manage, with a second just inside the first, Dorothy went on. "Mr. Barton, can you temporarily disable the smoke detectors in here?" And when Trowa had considered for a moment, then cast a spell, Dorothy clasped her hands in delight once more. "Oh, I wouldn't have thought to do it like that!" she said. "I would have based the fade on the presence of the candles, but your way is so much better. You really are impressive!" 

"Are we ready?" was Trowa's only response to this. 

Again Dorothy gestured to spots in the room, within the double pentagonal shape formed by the candles and one of which was already occupied by her niece. "Four points, please." And as the others took their places, she moved to the end of Quatre's desk, roughly in the center of them all. Having pushed the few items that rested there out of the way, she leaned back against it so she was half seated, crossing one ankle over the other and looking around still with that intrigued and purposeful smile. 

"Now, Mr. Barton, you may light the candles." She stretched out interlaced fingers and cracked her knuckles in a gesture both casual and preparatory. "Let's break this amateur div-block and find our Quatre."


	201. La Confrérie de la Lune Révéré Part 38

Though Dorothy started with the same divination she'd most recently attempted -- "Where is La Confrérie de la Lune Révéré?" -- it was significantly different now than before. 

At her unnecessary bidding, all of them (except the somewhat familiar-looking niece whose name Heero did not yet know and whose brain was as self-contained as Dorothy's) were concentrating on Quatre, their concern for him, and their desire to have him back among them. Dorothy had taken up the records Trowa had brought and, after removing a messy set of papers of various sizes from the envelope, clasped them to her chest. And the room was full of the scent of burning wax, and the hush of intense concentration. 

All of this somehow -- Heero didn't really know how divination worked, but he could clearly feel this -- greatly increased the power of Dorothy's question. Her words in the magical language seemed to echo with the strength of her intention, a strength it felt as if no one and nothing could withstand. Here, then, was the answer to his wondering about just how 'accomplished' a diviner she was. 

Something snapped. It reminded Heero of when Trowa had put out the fire in his house: some other magic was overridden so abruptly that it was like the shattering of old, brittle glass. The same muffled sense of hidden information that had arisen in response to this question before had come again as soon as Dorothy's words were out, but had lasted for only an instant before it seemed as if a curtain was torn away from a clear, detailed scene. 

The vision showed the interior of a large building like a warehouse, wide and open but for pillars here and there and free-standing walls that bore, like the perimeter, hanging paintings in a huge range of sizes. Completely undecorated besides these last, brilliantly lit by a multitude of electric lights as well as the sun through glass in the roof, uncarpeted, furnished with chairs and benches in an eclectic mix of styles, the place was a strange and probably would-be-artistic blend of utilitarianism and visual splendor. 

"The art mostly has to do with the moon and magic," Dorothy narrated. "They rotate it through the gallery in front, for viewing and for sale, and store it in the warehouse in back. Five dollars to get in, but two-fifty of that and a third of every art sale goes to a non-profit organization. The Confrérie owns this place, but they're mostly volunteers with other jobs. This is more like a religion than a profession to them." 

"You _are_ good," Duo said, evidently inadvertently. In this he was voicing Heero's thought aloud: how Dorothy had managed to read so much from what, though it had been a fairly detailed vision, hadn't provided any such information to Heero's understanding was utterly beyond him. 

Dorothy ignored the praise and asked next, "What is the name of the art gallery owned by La Confrérie de la Lune Révéré?" 

Predictably enough, it was Galerie de la Lune. 

"Where is the Confrérie's Galerie de la Lune located?" Dorothy asked. 

The next vision provided a wide view of what was evidently the front of the place. It stood in flat, balconied multiple stories right against the street, which was full of other tall, old, stone buildings of similar design for a rather claustrophobic feel. 

"Is that the French flag?" Duo demanded, voice and thoughts full of worry at the prospect. "Oh, but there's the U.S. too, and the Confederate." 

"New Orleans," Dorothy said with conviction. "French Quarter. Burgundy Street." 

Trowa sighed. "There are a few places in France I could have jumped to, but I don't know New Orleans at all." 

"We don't know for sure you'll have to go there," Heero tried to reassure him. 

Getting right to the heart of that matter, Dorothy asked, "Is Quatre in New Orleans with La Confrérie de la Lune Révéré?" 

Yes, he was. 

"Damn," Duo muttered. 

"Is Quatre at the Confrérie's Galerie de la Lune?" 

This time, all three of Quatre's close friends caught their breaths as the vision appeared: a small room of painted brick, at basement level to judge by the tiny closed horizontal windows against the low ceiling, furnished with a couple of filing cabinets, an old desk, and a camp bed -- and on the latter, Quatre himself, barefoot in shorts and a t-shirt. The large fan pointed straight at him from the desktop seemed to be doing little for his mood; despite his casual pose, hands behind head and legs crossed as he stared upward from where he lay, he was scowling, and a sense of deep anger and unhappiness overwhelmed, at least for Heero, any other feeling that might have come along with the visual. 

"There's a suite of rooms in back connected to the warehouse," said Dorothy. "They use them for offices and small storage, and right now for keeping Quatre in." 

"Have they hurt him?" Trowa demanded. 

"Is he there willingly?" Heero asked. 

"Is there even a bathroom?" Duo wondered. 

Dorothy cocked her head as she decided which of these simultaneous questions to pursue first. After a moment she queried in the magical language, "What does La Confrérie de la Lune Révéré want with Quatre?" 

The feeling of Quatre's anger heightened, though the vision they'd been seeing faded, and no other answer came. 

With a frustrated sound Dorothy reworded. "Does La Confrérie de la Lune Révéré want revenge on Quatre?" 

It wasn't a definite negative; it was more of a 'no, not really.' Still, even that much was reassuring. 

"Then why does La Confrérie de la Lune Révéré want Quatre with them at Galerie de la Lune?" 

Here was another vague answer with jumbled parts: aspects of a ritualistic spell like random pages of the schematic of an unknown mechanism; the continued, even stronger sense of Quatre's anger; and an inconclusive visual of something on a chain, filigreed in silver, that vaguely resembled the moon. 

This time, rather than Dorothy, it was Trowa, with another catch of breath, that understood. "They're trying to extract the energy from him and create a new artifact with it." 

"That's ambitious," Dorothy remarked. 

"Is that even possible?" Duo said. 

"I don't know." Trowa looked grim. "What I'm more worried about is the effect on Quatre of whatever spells they try." 

"What method," Dorothy asked in the magical language, "is La Confrérie de la Lune Révéré using to try to get artifact energy out of Quatre?" 

The aspects of the spell presented more coherently this time, but it was still, to Heero, very much like seeing the entire mechanical schematic would be: he couldn't make heads or tails of it, even in a state closer to complete, without a better idea of the whole. More interesting to him in any case was the new vision: a different basement room, bare except for the chair in its center and the symbols chalked across the walls and uncarpeted floor. Currently the only light came from the windows and an open door invisible at this angle, and the chamber was unoccupied, but the place was clearly set up and used for serious magical rituals. 

Slowly Trowa observed, "They've altered the spell a couple of times and tried it again because it hasn't worked so far." 

"Will it ever?" asked Duo. "I've never heard of anyone being able to directly move energy around like that." 

"Remember that they -- their predecessors -- deliberately put power into the first artifact." Trowa could gradually be seen shaking his head as the latest vision faded. "It's the extracting of energy from Quatre that seems likely to be the difficult part." 

Dorothy's next divination was, "Will the spell La Confrérie de la Lune Révéré is using to try to extract energy from Quatre ever work?" 

No, it would not. 

She shrugged as she glanced over at Trowa. "So depending on how much you trust answers about the future, there you have it." 

Heero might have inquired whether answers about the future were typically unreliable, but heard confirmation of this guess in Duo's thoughts and therefore said nothing. In fact, everyone was silent for several moments. Trowa looked unhappily pensive, Duo was pityingly picturing Quatre in that small and not very comfortable basement room two thousand miles from home, and Heero was trying to determine what else they needed to know while they had Dorothy here. Dorothy herself merely waited patiently, and the little red-haired girl in the chair, though she seemed to be listening with an intensity to match the interest Dorothy had suggested earlier, hadn't said a word. 

Finally Heero reiterated his earlier question. "Does Quatre want to be there? Was he actually kidnapped, or did he go with them willingly?" 

Obligingly Dorothy made the same inquiry in slightly more concise words in the magical language, and thereby called up a poignant combined sense of duress, desire to get away from everyone that might be hurt by angry behavior, and a sort of indifference or recklessness arising from a hopeless lack of control of the situation. 

"He didn't really want to go..." Trowa began slowly. 

"...but he saw it as a way to escape," Heero finished for him at a murmur. 

"So it was half a kidnapping," was Duo's assessment. "I wonder if he's regretting it now." 

Now Dorothy asked whether Quatre was complying with the current wishes of La Confrérie. And it seemed he was -- there were no weapons or restraints to be seen in the answering vision of Quatre being walked by strangers along a hall from the room in which he was staying to the one where the rituals took place -- but Heero felt a definite sense of 'for now,' along with anger and the swift disintegration of already compromised patience, about the entire thing. 

"What happens if he stops going along with them?" Duo wondered. "If he snaps? There's no reason for him not to be just as mad as he was before..." 

Uncertainly Heero suggested, "He might eventually use up the energy, like we were hoping at first..." 

"Or they might actually get the spell right and pull the stuff out of him." Duo sounded every bit as uncertain. "That answer could have been wrong." 

"Even if I thought they could get it right," Trowa put in, folding his arms, "I don't know that I'd want to leave them to it. I tried to use that energy for spellcasting once, as if Quatre were an artifact, and it actively hurt him." 

"If he's still putting up with them trying whatever ritual over and over again, they're probably not hurting him yet... but who knows when they might start? And..." Obviously Duo would rather not make the next part of this speculation out loud, but felt he had to. "And if they hurt him enough, it won't matter if he doesn't want to go along with them anymore. I mean, what if he's too... damaged... by whatever they do to insist they let him go or try to leave on his own?" 

Trowa took a deep breath, frowning with pursed lips. 

"Dorothy," Heero said, "can you find out--" 

But he was interrupted, and every head turned, at just this moment. Because the little girl hadn't spoken at all yet, and perhaps because she was a child among adults, the first sound of her high-pitched voice -- bored, skeptical, yet somehow pert at the same time -- from where she remained still in the chair with her hands in her lap induced instant silence, seized the room's full attention: 

"Um, do you really need to ask anything else? Obviously you need to just get on an airplane and go to New Orleans and rescue your friend."


	202. La Confrérie de la Lune Révéré Part 39

It was as if the little girl's words had broken a curse that kept them all motionless and uncertain: abruptly it flashed upon them that she was absolutely right, and discussing possibilities only wasted time. 

Heero was on his way to Quatre's computer. Trowa was quietly speaking a spell to put out the candles. Dorothy had stepped away from where she'd been half seated on the desk and moved to sit more properly in the other chair in front of it. And Duo had moved to look down at this so unexpectedly incisive niece of his manager. 

"You're a smart kid," he said as she returned his gaze calmly with a faint smile almost as calculating as the one she'd given him before. 

"My teacher thinks so," said the girl with some smugness. 

"Your parents think so too," Dorothy supplied. Her sharp expression looked very much like the girl's. "And so do I." 

Duo might have asked what grade she was in, but honestly she still creeped him out a little. This was the type of kid that, back when Duo had been a doll, would engage him in disturbing role-plays involving far too much mature understanding of human psychology. He remembered one in which he'd been assigned the part of a serial killer eventually hunted down and forced to jump off a bridge to his death by police Barbies. Fun times. Right now, he made his way back around the desk to join Trowa seeing what Heero was looking up online. 

"I think the closest place to New Orleans that I'm sure I could jump to is in Kansas or New Mexico," the frustrated Trowa was saying as he watched the computer over Heero's shoulder. 

"And no chance of targeting Quatre?" Duo knew perfectly well there was none -- Trowa would have jumped to Quatre long since if he could have used him as a destination -- but he yet felt compelled to ask. 

"None. I don't know if I'll ever be able to do that again, with the way it combines command and communion, but if I can, it won't be any time soon. A flight seems like my best option." 

"Um, _our_ best option?" Duo replied in a skeptical, accusatory tone. "Remember how he's with a magical cult that burned your house down?" 

"And," said Heero, quiet and emphatic, "remember how he's my best friend?" 

"Oh, yeah," Duo recalled, "and remember how you don't drive?" 

"Of course," Trowa replied, raising a hand as if to ward off the protests. "Don't think I wouldn't rather have you two with me. But this is going to be expensive enough for just one of us." 

"Let's see how expensive," Heero murmured. Now that the computer had finished booting and he'd entered his managerial login, he opened a browser and typed 'cheap flights' into the search bar. Then, on the first site that came up, he requested the price of a flight from here to New Orleans tomorrow. 

When the icon in the center of the screen had finished spinning and a list, organized from lowest fare to highest, had populated, a collective groan arose. 

"That doesn't sound good," Dorothy remarked from where she couldn't see what they were looking at. 

"Airplane rides are expensive," was the niece's wise input. 

"There's nothing under a thousand," Heero informed the ladies grimly. And without another word he started opening every single site returned by his original search in separate tabs, and entering the same information into each one. 

"Trowa, are you still super rich?" Duo wondered in some concern. 

"I just bought a _house_," Trowa replied in a horrified half whisper. "I don't have even a thousand dollars left." 

Duo's concern blossomed into something more like panic. "How much _do_ you have?" 

"Maybe half that much." 

"And I don't have _anything_... I haven't even gotten my first paycheck yet." Duo stared at the screen in growing consternation. "Heero? Please tell me my responsible boyfriend saves lots of money all the time." 

"Your responsible boyfriend..." Heero sucked in a regretful breath through his teeth. "...has student loans he's still paying off, and has been spending all his disposable income lately helping somebody born in 1899 experience the twenty-first century." 

"Damn me and my stupid... everything!" Taut fingers interwoven with his hair, Duo clutched at his head and made a sound of frustration. He'd _always known_ it was inappropriate to let Heero buy him so much stuff. Why had he given in? Of course he couldn't have guessed that he might be contributing to Quatre's eventual peril in so doing, but he'd already had reasons to think it was a bad idea. If he'd just stuck to his guns-- 

"Hey," said Heero firmly, turning fully toward Duo and tugging at one of his belt-loops to get his complete attention. "We've been over this. It wasn't your fault, and I probably wouldn't have twenty-five hundred saved anyway. OK?" 

Staring down into Heero's earnest face, Duo took a deep breath and removed his hands from his hair. "Yeah, OK," he said. "OK. So what else can we do?" 

"I would be happy to lend you guys some money," Dorothy put in at this point, causing hope to rise in every heart for approximately two seconds before she finished, "if I hadn't just taken an expensive vacation." 

Silence fell while Heero continued to enter airports and tomorrow's date into various websites. "Here's a nine-fifty," he said presently, not with much enthusiasm. 

"I thought adults had credit cards," the little red-headed girl mused. 

A lot of headshaking came in response to this, and explanations from three of the four adults: 

"I barely even have a legal identity," Duo said. 

"I already have enough debt," Heero said. 

"Mine is maxed at the moment," Dorothy said. At a surprised look from Heero, she added, "And it's only got a $600 limit anyway. I used it for food on my trip." 

"Where did you _eat_?" Heero wondered incredulously. "You were only gone a week." 

"I treated myself," was Dorothy's lofty answer. "A vacation is a vacation." 

"I believe we have three options to get to New Orleans tomorrow." Trowa spoke as if he'd been completely ignoring the conversation in favor of thinking hard and fast. "First, I could get in touch with my contacts and see if I can borrow enough money for a couple of plane tickets. I'm still not in much of a position to offer favors in return, and I have many more email addresses than phone numbers, meaning it sometimes takes a while for people to get back to me -- so this isn't a sure option, but it's still an option. 

"Or, if we can decide on just one of us to go, I'm sure we can scrape up enough for a single ticket among ourselves." When Duo started to protest this, Trowa overrode him. "I know it's a bad idea; I know you two want to come, and I want you with me. But we have to look at all our options. It would be better for one of us to go alone tomorrow than to wait for something cheaper who knows how many days from now." 

"Fine," Duo agreed. "So what's the third option?" 

"Ask Quatre's parents for a loan." 

Everyone turned this over in silence for several moments. Finally Heero said slowly, "They would probably have the money to lend, but I think asking them for it would involve telling them everything." 

"Yes, I think so too," Trowa replied. 

"How will Quatre feel if he finds out you've told his parents everything while he was gone?" 

"He wants them told. I think you heard him accuse me of not wanting to have that conversation even after five months." 

"And _do_ you want to have that conversation?" For the gentleness in Heero's tone, Duo loved him. 

Trowa shook his head. "I don't think it matters. If we could convince them, it would be the quickest way to get the money, and the most convenient way for you two to get time off to go help their son." 

Duo hadn't thought of this, but Trowa was right; this was the big boss they were talking about. That 'if we could convince them,' however, remained ominously hovering over the proposed venture. "What if they say no?" he wondered. 

"Then I send another mass email, and call everyone whose number I have, begging for money," said Trowa flatly. "And if that doesn't work, I go alone." 

It was rational, Duo had to admit. It wasn't a very pleasant prospect, but it seemed like a logical multi-layered plan that would put _someone_ in New Orleans tomorrow no matter what succeeded and what failed. "Good thinking," he said soberly. "So how do we start?" 

"By getting Mr. and Mrs. Winner to meet us at my house, if we can. I'll go to them if I have to, but I'd rather not invade their home for this kind of conversation, especially since I may have to demonstrate magic for them and it would be better if they're the only ones present." 

"Mr. Barton," Dorothy said, rising from her seat, "I think you're underestimating what your fans are willing to do for you, favors or no favors." 

"Even if I am," Trowa replied, "I still think talking to the Winners is a quicker and more certain first option." 

Dorothy shrugged. "I'm sure that what Mr. Trowa Barton thinks is best is best, and I wish you all the luck in the world." 

Trowa stepped over to her with the offer of another handshake. "Thank you very much for all your help in this matter," he said gravely. "We would still be in the dark without you." 

"It's my pleasure. It was amazing to meet you and work with you. I'll be very interested to hear how this all turns out, and to see how Quatre's doing once you bring him back." Having said this, Dorothy turned to where her niece had risen as well and added, "Shall we go?" 

The little girl nodded, and together, avoiding the candles that still decorated the floor, she and Dorothy headed for the door. 

"Thanks, Dorothy," Heero offered from the desk. 

"Yeah, thanks a ton," Duo reiterated. 

She threw that sharp smile of hers over her shoulder and said by way of goodbye, "I'll expect not to see either of you here tomorrow." 

The little girl, on the heels of her aunt, also turned back to glance at them before leaving, and the disdainful young voice offered one last piece of advice: "Try not to be stupid about things, and maybe you'll do OK." 

"Yeah, thanks for that," Duo muttered, shivering slightly, when the door had closed. Then he shook himself and turned to where Heero was shutting down the computer, Trowa standing still looking contemplative. "All right, now what?"


	203. La Confrérie de la Lune Révéré Part 40

Trowa's pacing of his nearly empty first floor could almost be called 'prowling,' but it accomplished very little. He'd come back to his house ahead of the others (not that this was unusual, given their different modes of transportation) to ensure it looked as respectable as possible before Mr. and Mrs. Winner arrived, but there wasn't much he could do toward that end. He'd brought his armchair down from the study to face the one piece of furniture here in the living room, and readied a couple of the dishes that remained to him so as to be able to offer his guests tea, and that was about as far as his preparations could extend. 

They'd eventually decided that Heero, as a friend of longer standing, should be the one to make the call to Quatre's parents and try to convince them to come to Trowa's house. What he'd said to them Trowa didn't know, just as he had no idea how Heero had managed to get Quatre to agree to see an exorcist last week, but Heero's Winner-persuasion skills had evidently sufficed: he'd sent a text to confirm his success and that he and Duo were on their way here now. 

Upon their arrival, there was a general milling about in subdued agitation very much like back in May when they'd waited for the curse to break. Here, though, just the opposite of Heero's apartment, large and largely unfurnished rooms made for plenty of empty space to pace through. Duo still managed to get in Heero's way repeatedly, and Trowa thought he might have been doing it on purpose in an attempt to alleviate some of the tension. 

When the doorbell rang, they all jumped for it, but even Duo, after his immediate vigorous motion toward the entry, restrained himself from joining Trowa. The latter took a deep breath, readied a look of sober but friendly welcome, and went to open the door. 

Aside from expressions that matched Trowa's fairly neatly, Mr. and Mrs. Winner appeared as he'd ever seen them: they each had a tendency to dress -- as was only to be expected in a couple old enough to be Quatre's grandparents rather than his parents -- in clothing that, though it seemed nothing particularly unusual to Trowa, he knew to be somewhat old-fashioned. In fact Trowa believed his own outdated wardrobe had won him points with at least the father, whose good-natured ribbing regarding coats with tails had seemed also to hold a touch of approval. 

Now as this gentleman greeted Trowa, his wife had stepped into the entryway and was looking around with interest. "Yes, good evening!" she echoed. "Heero mentioned you'd just moved into town. It seems like a lovely house." 

Though the days were long past of soliciting parental approval and permission to remove their offspring from under their own protective roof to that of a hopeful suitor, Trowa couldn't help feeling some pleasure at this statement of approbation, even if, that very night, he'd had cause to regret buying a home so large and fine. But that same offspring, and not the protective roof, was what they had met for, as Mr. Winner reminded them: "We're here to discuss Quatre, not the house." 

"Yes, of course," Mrs. Winner agreed, her gravity increasing. Turning to Trowa she added, "Heero said it was important." 

"Come sit down." Trowa led the way through the echoing front room into the next and gestured to the sofa. "We have a lot to talk about. Would you like some tea?" 

Busy first greeting the friends waiting in the living room and then examining with some interest and curiosity the sofa that was draped over with a large white sheet, the Winners neglected to answer Trowa's question immediately; but when they were seated, Mrs. Winner, often the more courteous of the two, accepted the offer on behalf of both of them. 

"I don't know whether Heero mentioned it," Trowa said as he moved to pour the tea and bring it out from the adjoining kitchen, "but my previous house burned down. I apologize for the sheet, but that smoke-damaged sofa and the chair there are all the seats I have left." 

Though Mr. and Mrs. Winner made sounds of surprise and sympathy at what was apparently news, Trowa didn't allow them time to interject with questions or comments. "I'm somewhat attached to this sofa," he went on as he handed them their cups, "and giving it up would have meant reducing the amount of furniture I have left even further." As he settled down across from them into his own chair he finished, "I haven't given up hope of getting the smoke stains out." 

Mr. Winner appeared a little impatient at this ostensibly irrelevant topic. Though Mrs. Winner also seemed somewhat confused, still she did her part in maintaining the conversation by shaking her head and saying with polite regret, "If it's been a few days, even an expert might not be able to get it out now." 

"I wasn't planning on a restoration service." Trowa spoke with perfectly level coolness. "I'm going to try to do it with magic. I just haven't had a chance to work out a spell for cleaning smoke out of upholstery yet." 

This lead-up wasn't much smoother than talking about the sofa had been all along, but Trowa considered it better than plunging in with no introduction whatsoever. 

Now Mr. Winner looked even more impatient than before, though, to judge by certain twitches of his white mustache, he seemed to be trying to come up with a jovial response and match his wife's willingness to maintain the conversation. Once again, however, it was she that spoke first. _She_ had undergone no change in facial expression, and her words were calm and pleasant: 

"A good friend of mine, who seems perfectly rational in every other area, sometimes talks about magic and spells just like that -- seriously, as if it's a real part of her life. I hadn't considered you the type for that kind of thing, Trowa." 

"Would you like to see some magic?" Trowa offered with the same levelness as before. 

"We would _like_," Mr. Winner answered, "to know what about Quatre Heero was so anxious to have us come here to discuss." 

Trowa gave a slight nod acknowledging the reasonableness of this request, but still had to insist. "This is relevant." 

Mr. Winner made a disbelieving noise. "Whatever you know about Quatre, you should just tell us." 

"No, it isn't." This sudden firm statement from Heero didn't seem congruous with the discussion thus far, but when Mr. Winner gave Heero a sharp, startled look it seemed to Trowa that it must have been in response to an unspoken thought. 

"I told you before it's not his fault," Heero went on quietly from where he stood beside Trowa's chair. "We'll explain everything, but you need to see this first." And he broke the held gaze he'd been sharing with Mr. Winner and turned his head toward Trowa in a gesture that the latter should proceed. 

Trowa took a deep breath as his boyfriend's parents, with mixed expressions of surprise, concern, curiosity, and annoyance, granted him their full attention again. 

He'd given this as much thought as time and agitation had allowed, and come to the conclusion that an early demonstration was a better idea than half an hour's unconvincing dissertation on the subject (undoubtedly _followed_ by a demonstration); then it only remained to determine which spells would be the most quickly and thoroughly convincing. Some he'd dismissed as being too easily mistaken for sleight of hand, others as requiring the setup of rituals he didn't have resources for at the moment, and eventually he'd settled on a couple he hoped would be effective. Now it was time to find out. 

He began by summoning objects from his office. This was a simple enough spell, especially given that he'd laid the things out in two neat rows on his table up there in preparation for it, and, with only the handful of items he planned on summoning, not at all tiring. The first book appeared out of nowhere, a few feet away from Trowa so as to look less like something he might have had beside him on the chair and a few inches above the carpet so as to cause some motion and a slight sound as it fell. 

The people on the couch had been staring at Trowa, puzzled by the sound of the unfamiliar language in which he spoke his spell, but now Mrs. Winner's head turned toward where movement had caught her eye. Her brow-lowered gaze remained on the innocent-looking object on the floor -- clearly evincing the question in her head, "Was that there before?" -- until a second book, in response to Trowa's next spell, thumped down on top of the first, and she started visibly. 

There followed an additional couple of volumes, a pack of cards, an empty cup, and Trowa's desk lamp -- which retained for half an instant the electric glow of having been plugged in up until now before going dark and toppling over. By the time this small pile had accumulated, both Winners were watching it with some concentration. The advent of objects had ceased to startle, but contemplation and some astonishment was written plainly in the bearing of each watcher. 

"I know this is a very mundane demonstration," Trowa said as he rose from his chair. Then with another spell he jumped from where he stood to the far side of the kitchen counter, fifteen or so feet away. This caused Mr. Winner also to rise and jump -- though _his_ motion was merely a non-magical springing to his feet off the sofa, dropping his cup and spilling tea onto the floor as he did so. 

"I hope it convinces you," Trowa continued in a louder tone, drawing the surprised gaze of both Winners toward his new position and causing the husband to take a step in that direction, "that I have magical abilities." His next spell took him into the front room, so that when he finished his statement the startled snapping of attention brought the Winners' heads ninety degrees around. "Magic is a normal part of life for many people -- such as that friend you mentioned, most likely, Mrs. Winner." Calmly he walked back toward them, gesturing to where Heero still stood beside his chair and Duo sat on the step up out of the sunken living room area. "These friends of mine are both magicians as well." 

Trowa resumed his seat, facing the still-standing Mr. Winner and his motionless wife, in whose faces it would have been difficult to pinpoint a single dominant emotion. The primary concern of their complex frames of mind, however, was soon evident as Mrs. Winner said in a baffled, worried murmur, "And Quatre?" 

Her husband took up the query with an almost combative air, not bothering to restrain the disapproval in his glare at Trowa or the accusatory tension in his frame. "Yes! What does all of this have to do with our son?"


	204. La Confrérie de la Lune Révéré Part 41

  


"Quatre has been infected" --Heero was glad Trowa chose this word rather than the more accurate and definitely more agitating 'possessed'-- "with a large amount of magical energy from a destroyed magical artifact. This is what caused him to act the way he has been over the last few weeks. And we've just learned today" --Trowa didn't mention how, which Heero believed Dorothy would appreciate-- "that the group of magicians who originally created the artifact want that energy to create a new artifact with. They've taken Quatre, partly against his will, to their headquarters, where they're trying magical rituals to extract the energy from him." 

As if they weren't sure whether or not Trowa was finished or what should be said if he was, Quatre's parents continued to stare at him after he'd closed his mouth. And Heero, regardless of how strange and uncomfortable it felt to be prying into the head of someone that was his best friend's dad, his boss, and an elderly man he'd known and respected for a decade, listened very hard to all unspoken sentiments. 

Mrs. Winner had a mind as neatly organized (and therefore quiet) as her son's, but Mr. Winner's more volatile thoughts jumped out readily for Heero to read. At the moment they were a jumble of very understandable sentiments, but predominant was a drive to get to the bottom of all this, figure out where Quatre was and what was wrong with him -- and, to this end, to act as if he believed everything (which he wasn't sure yet that he didn't) as long as necessary. It reminded Heero of how Quatre had treated Duo at their first meeting. 

"All right," Mr. Winner said now, trying to match Trowa's admirable calm and almost managing it. "So if this group succeeds in extracting this magical energy from him, he'll return to his normal behavior and come home?" 

It was not Trowa that answered, at which Heero was unsurprised. Only having met Quatre's parents a couple of times before, Duo had been holding back from entering a conversation in which he would seem an outsider to them -- but he could only restrain himself for so long. He burst out, "Yeah, but only if they _can_! If they can figure out how to make it work, fine, but in the meantime they're keeping him in some crappy little back room without even a real bed to sleep on, while all the time we've got guys here who could do it _without_ hurting him if we just _had_ him here!" 

Mr. Winner started to inquire about this method that could reverse Quatre's condition, but stopped himself and allowed his wife, who'd begun a question at the same moment, to speak first: "They're hurting him? These people trying to extract this magical energy?" 

"Not yet," Trowa replied, "as far as we can tell. We believe he went with them somewhat willingly, and he still seems to be going along with their rituals as of this evening, but we're afraid their rituals aren't going to work and will become more harmful as they keep trying -- and that, even if Quatre isn't being held against his will right now, he will be eventually." 

Anticipating the remainder of Mr. Winner's aborted query, he added, "We're in touch with a magical specialist who can cure him with no danger, but Quatre had already left before we had a chance to call him in. Now we want to go to Quatre and bring him back, but we don't have the money to fly to New Orleans, which is where these people have him. We were hoping you could lend us money for plane tickets." 

The room grew heavy with the type of shocked silence, like the aftermath of electricity in the air, that falls in the wake of an unexpected disaster. Mr. Winner, suddenly exponentially more suspicious, still struggled to work out how much if any of this he believed, and Heero was struck with interest (and what might under other circumstances have been amusement) to recognize a consideration in the man's head that had once occupied his own: though the magical proofs that had been offered were pretty thoroughly convincing, the mere existence of magic did not verify the story in its entirety. Some of this, in increments, Mr. Winner might have been able to accept, but the sudden announcement that Quatre's already doubtable boyfriend wanted to borrow money made the whole thing come across as little more than a very bizarre scam. 

And unlike when Heero had secretly wanted to believe Trowa's story back in March -- since believing at that point had meant accepting the humanity of someone he was developing a romantic interest in -- Mr. Winner had no real desire to believe that his son had some kind of supernatural infection and was in danger from a mysterious group of unknown powers. He couldn't quite decide whether that was better or worse than a sudden drug addiction, but at least the latter was something he could comprehend and take steps to assist Quatre away from. 

At the same time, Mr. Winner trusted Heero to a degree that rather surprised and flattered Heero himself. Heero had been a top-notch employee for several years, and a faithful, supportive, reasonable friend to Quatre for even longer, and his presence here now backing Trowa's claims carried a great deal of weight. In fact, Mr. Winner reflected that if this had been coming _solely_ from Heero, he would have believed it much more easily and considered the request in a much more positive light. Had Heero been aware of this, he would have taken immediate advantage of it to get the money they needed, but he hadn't in any way guessed Mr. Winner held him in such high esteem. 

Nor had he been aware until this very moment that Mr. Winner wished _Heero_, rather than anyone else, were Quatre's boyfriend. This Trowa fellow had seemed almost acceptable for a while, but now... 

Aghast, Heero demanded, "How long have you wished that?" 

In the previous instance of Heero responding to his private thoughts, Mr. Winner had written it off as an astute guess based on prior knowledge that he suspected Trowa of causing Quatre's attitude change and disappearance. In this instance, there was no way he could interpret Heero's question as anything other than a specific reply to what he'd just been thinking. 

"Wished what?" Mrs. Winner wondered, even as her husband shook his head almost convulsively in his astonishment. His brain busied with the concurrent reflections that mind-reading must be the manifestation of the magical power Trowa had mentioned Heero possessed, and that he'd wished Heero and Quatre would get together ever since Quatre's first post-high-school boyfriend, Eric, had developed a habit of calling Quatre at all hours of the day and night looking for reassurance on this or that emotional matter. 

"Mr. Winner, that was six years ago. How can you have gone so long--" Heero cut this protest off as unproductive, took a deep breath, and began again with a firm bluntness that couldn't but make him blush. "I love Quatre. He's my best friend and probably always will be. But I'm not and I never will be in love with him, or him with me. We're not right for each other like that. I'm not even sorry, because we each have someone who _is_ right for us." 

As he gestured to Duo on his left, still seated on the step between the carpet below and the wood floor above, and Trowa on his right, still in that hideous green chair, he noticed that they both seemed a little surprised at this turn of conversation. But he plowed on. 

"I know this doesn't seem like the most important thing right now, but I feel like we need to get it out of the way." He face continued to burn as he addressed the Winners again, looking from one to the other in serious appeal and speaking, his own chagrin, as if he and they were all the same age and on the same level: 

"It's hard to not be suspicious of anyone Quatre picks up; don't you think I know that as well as you do? It makes perfect sense for you to be suspicious of Quatre's boyfriend, and to take a long time to learn to accept him... but you need to stop hoping that, if you can just get him to get rid of this one, I'll be the next one in line, because that's never going to happen." 

Here he ceased, because his own boyfriend was about ready to burst again, and Heero thought it wisest to allow it. Duo leapt to his feet and made a frustrated gesture in the air. "This isn't about who's a better boyfriend for Quatre! -- which, by the way? I love Quatre too, but he can't have Heero. This is about rescuing Quatre from those damn cultists before they magic his brains out or something!" 

There was an aggression to Duo's tone and movements that seemed to demand of Quatre's parents, _"Are you or aren't you going to help us?"_ and perhaps even imply, _"If you're not with us, you're against us!"_ ...and unfortunately this was the wrong tack. Mr. Winner clearly didn't like having a long-standing attitude plucked from the privacy of his mind and then challenged, _then_ being told that it wasn't what this discussion was actually about as if _he_ had led them off on some inappropriate tangent. 

"If Quatre's been kidnapped by someone," he said with some heat, "and you three know about it and know where he is, you need to tell the police. They're already looking for him; it's not up to you to do their job." 

"Do the police use magic, though?" wondered Mrs. Winner quietly, sparking in Heero a sudden hope that she might be more convinced than her husband was. He couldn't read her thoughts and hadn't been able to read her face all along, so this was a promising sign. 

"I don't know if I believe _anyone_ uses magic!" In fact Mr. Winner did believe that what he'd seen was magic, but he was playing devil's advocate against the points he couldn't quite believe yet. "Trowa here has done a couple of tricks and then asked us for money without offering any proof that this is really about Quatre." 

That was what it came down to: anything that had even the least bit of suspicion about it and then ended in a request for money was probably a scam. Heero couldn't even say he blamed the man. He really had no idea _what_ to say. 

Mrs. Winner nodded, then used an apologetic tone very much like one Quatre sometimes did: "Gentlemen, it _is_ a little strange that you're bringing all of this up just when Quatre _isn't_ around to verify it." 

"Precisely." Mr. Winner nodded vigorously. "That's an excellent point." He didn't quite seem able to decide whether he wanted to voice his new suspicion, though: was it possible that Trowa had, after all, done something to put Quatre out of the way long enough for this strange request to be made out of his presence? And yet Heero would never be party to a scheme that would hurt or endanger Quatre, would he? But for someone the Winners had already viewed a little askance to make such a bizarre demonstration all of a sudden and then ask for money... 

Helplessly Trowa shook his head. "I don't know what else to tell you. There's plenty more I _could_ tell you, about magic and myself -- and I will tell you sometime, I promise -- but I don't know that it would help you to trust me now. Can I ask you at least to trust Heero, though? Can you believe that _his_ intentions are good and honest, and that, if he says this is the best way to help Quatre, it truly is?" 

Though this was probably optimal wording at the moment, the Winners exchanged a grave look that held a touch of the same helplessness Trowa had evinced. Heero could easily see that the husband still hadn't made up his mind, and guessed the wife was in much the same state; they didn't know what to think, and it agitated them even further to be asked point blank to make a decision on such shaky grounds. 

And then a new voice spoke from behind Heero and his friends, startling them with both its entrance into the conversation and its words: "You need about $3,000; is that right? I can easily lend you that."


	205. La Confrérie de la Lune Révéré Part 42

  


Everyone turned to look in the direction of the newcomer, Trowa even jumping to his feet in order to do so. And, while it shouldn't really have been a shock to find Hajime standing just where the living room transitioned into the more open front room, Duo at least had entirely forgotten the man's presence and was very surprised to see him. He'd also lost track of the fact that the exorcist was (primarily, according to Heero) a communicator, so the accurate announcement (by someone that hadn't been informed) of how much money was needed in this situation came as a surprise as well. 

"If you had asked me first," Hajime went on, taking a few more steps forward and stopping again with a gesture around at the assembled group, "you could have avoided all of this." 

"And who are you, sir?" Quatre's father looked wary, and Duo, remembering the reason Hajime was in this house at all, wondered whether Mr. Winner recognized the man described by the security officer at work. If so, he must consider this more a hoax than ever, and consider any suspicions he'd been harboring regarding criminal or otherwise underhanded dealings all but confirmed. And having someone in a position of control over the entire immediate future completely dismiss what Duo had to say as impossible was not a situation the former doll was pleased to revisit. 

Simultaneously, though, Duo realized that, if Hajime was willing to lend them money, it didn't actually matter much. Callous as it seemed under the circumstances (under any circumstances, really), the Winners could be dispensed with entirely at this point in favor of the unexpectedly helpful exorcist. Like Trowa, Duo turned his full attention on the man, so that the only person left looking at the Winners was Hajime himself. 

The latter had introduced himself very politely by name and as "the specialist Mr. Barton mentioned." Then he turned toward Trowa and said, "It's too much to ask of them all at once -- to suddenly believe in magic _and_ lend you money." There was a touch of 'you should have known better' in his tone, and with this sentiment Heero quietly agreed: 

"We should have realized that." 

"I can buy you plane tickets on my phone, unless you'd rather go somewhere else and find a computer." 

Trowa, the one directly addressed, seemed to have been too struck by the abrupt good fortune and total change in conversation to say anything before this, and now he appeared blindsided by Hajime's professional expeditiousness. And before Trowa could get out the first thanks toward which his eventual attempt at speech tended, Mr. Winner spoke instead: 

"I think this is all a little hasty. Maybe it was a lot to ask of us at once, but I think it's just as bad to move forward without us without even allowing us to tell you what we think." 

"I apologize for going over your heads," Hajime replied, "but I don't think there _can_ be too much haste in this situation." 

"But are you the right person to be providing the money in this situation, Mr. Saitou?" Mrs. Winner wondered. "It seems to me that you should be _being_ paid, not paying." 

"Your son is my client, ma'am. It's my priority to help him by whatever means necessary." Hajime's words held a reserved but courteous sort of businesslike friendliness, and it struck Duo, who hadn't seen him act like this before, as a little creepy. 

And yet it seemed to be hitting the right note with the Winners. Hajime had an aura of competence and authority that was only augmented by his current behavior devoid of disdain or sarcasm. Perhaps the suit helped as well; it said something about a man that he would be fully decked out in tie and jacket under such circumstances. If Duo had thought of that, he might not have removed both of his and rolled up his shirt sleeves. 

"It seems more appropriate for his family to pay for this, though, doesn't it, Mr. Saitou?" Mrs. Winner persisted. 

"Certainly," the exorcist agreed. "If they're in a position to do so." 

"And we may very well be in that position." Mr. Winner spoke with a touch of remonstrance, as if there had never been any doubt on this point. "It's certainly a very strange situation, but if anyone is going to be paying for a flight out to where Quatre is, it really should be his parents." 

"We're only asking for a loan," Trowa reminded. "I _will_ pay you back as soon as possible, of course." 

Mr. Winner gave him a pensive look not entirely free of suspicion yet. "I'm inclined to ask where you would get the money, since I have my doubts about what you've told us in the past about your income, but I suppose that's something to discuss later. At the moment I'm thinking it might be best for my wife and I to go to New Orleans ourselves to find Quatre and see if all of this is true." When this suggestion was met with surprised and dismayed silence, Mr. Winner finished, "We can take Heero with us as a guide." 

Not only did this addendum assist Duo's gear-shifting attempt at coming up with a response, it also galvanized him into protest as he realized all at once, uncomfortably, that he really wasn't ready yet to have a couple thousand miles between him and Heero. He would have believed that nearly half a year must have been long enough for him to get over the five-foot thing, and he would have been incorrect. 

Obviously Heero read this nervousness in Duo's head, for even as Duo spoke Heero moved silently to stand beside him in a gesture that seemed to say, _"I'm not going anywhere without you."_

And Duo said, "Heero's got communication magic, and he's new at it, and that might not be enough if these people don't want to give Quatre up!" 

"They can't hold him against his will," Mr. Winner insisted. "Not if we get the police involved." 

Trowa shook his head. "The police can't help. When these people set fire to my old house, they also brainwashed the police and the firefighters into thinking it wasn't arson. I hope we'll be able to get Quatre out of there peacefully, but it's possible we may need some magic, and Duo's right -- Heero's communication powers will be useful, but may not be enough." 

Mrs. Winner had made a startled sound at the news that the group holding her son was also responsible for the burning of Trowa's house, and now got in ahead of her husband asking, "And would _you_ be enough against people like that? Do you suggest we take you with us instead?" 

"I suggest the two of you stay here and leave this to those of us who have magical abilities." Trowa was clearly growing somewhat impatient and trying not to show it. Of course he and his friends were the ones requesting a favor, and shouldn't expect to be able to dictate the speed of that request; and of course the Winners were in a difficult position, and should be given time to adjust, but the drag of the conversation was maddening. Duo felt exactly the same, and guessed Heero probably did as well. 

"Don't forget I can pay for your plane tickets under any circumstances," Hajime murmured to Trowa. 

"We _will_ pay for plane tickets," Mr. Winner said with emphatic haste, while his wife nodded her immediate agreement, and Duo thought he saw now what was going on: they perceived what little control they could have over any aspect of the situation slipping from them as this complete stranger volunteered to do what they were somewhat reluctant to, and they were jumping at the chance to remain part of the proceedings. At Duo's side, Heero nodded faintly as if to confirm this guess. 

"We just have to decide who needs to go and who needs to stay," Mr. Winner was adding. 

"We could all go," his wife mused. 

"That's certainly an option," Trowa agreed at once. "Quatre might be happy to see you." Duo guessed he said this merely for purposes of placation, to indicate to the Winners by his willingness to include them that his intentions really were as stated. This guess -- that Trowa didn't really believe what he'd just said -- was reinforced by Heero's quiet, head-shaking reply: 

"Quatre's not going to be happy to see _anyone_. Not until we get him cured." 

Trowa frowned, probably anticipating the welcome _he_ was likely to receive when he showed up unasked to remove his boyfriend from a situation Quatre hadn't been entirely unwilling to enter in the first place. 

Mrs. Winner pursed her lips and looked at Heero. Then she too shook her head, with a decisive sort of finality. "Bernard, I say we trust them and send them on their own," she said in a tone to match her gesture. "I get the feeling we would only be in the way." 

Her husband glanced at her, followed her gaze to Heero, then looked quickly at the other faces in the room. Finally he nodded. "All right. We'll get the three of you to New Orleans and back. I suppose you'll need a rental car there, so we'll pay for that too." 

Duo felt as if he'd been forced to hold his breath throughout the interview and had finally, light-headed and with straining lungs, been allowed to release it now. Relief filled the room so thoroughly that he realized he'd still been hoping for this method of attaining their goal even when Hajime had suggested another. 

Perhaps, though, what he thought he felt was shared only by himself and Heero, for Trowa still looked pathetically tense, as if the Winners' promise might be retracted again at any moment should he so much as blink improperly. He probably wouldn't be able to relax at all until plane tickets had actually been purchased and there was no going back -- and perhaps not even then. The worry about Quatre, after all, remained under everything else. 

In a voice slightly lowered and with words somewhat slowed in sudden, deliberate pointedness, Mr. Winner went on. "But I want you to understand that if it turns out you're not actually acting in my son's best interest--" 

Here Trowa interrupted, equally low and intense: "There is nothing in the world more important to me right now than helping Quatre." 

"You say that," Mr. Winner said grimly, "but it seems you've lied to us before. And if I find out you've--" 

This time it was his wife that broke in, clapping a hand down onto his arm in a clear indication that he needed to refrain from finishing his threatening statement. She murmured, "Trusting them, remember?" 

"Let me know when you'll be back," Hajime advised Trowa at this point. "Sano and I will be ready here, unless you'd rather meet us somewhere else." And when Trowa replied that here at the house was fine, Hajime gave the Winners a polite nod and walked away as quietly as he'd entered. 

When the exorcist was out of sight and his footsteps could be heard climbing the stairs, Mr. Winner stood up and looked around as if he'd just been broken from a reverie and now had to recall what he'd previously been doing. Slowly he bent to retrieve the teacup he'd dropped on the floor earlier, and when he stood straight he found Trowa before him with a hand out to take the item back to the kitchen. Mr. Winner looked at him steadily as he relinquished the cup, then, as Trowa turned to take the other from Mrs. Winner, said, "We'll head back home and see about getting you boys some plane tickets. Can you print your own boarding passes?" 

Before the retreating Trowa could explain that his computer had been destroyed in the fire, Heero interjected, "Trowa, do you remember how you first demonstrated magic to me and Quatre?" 

"Yes," Trowa replied. "Do you think that might be advisable here?" 

"It would make a good finishing touch, and might give you a useful opportunity. Duo and I will go home, and you can text us flight times in a little while. We'll meet at my apartment tomorrow and go to the airport from there." 

Returning from the kitchen, Trowa was nodding despite not seeming terribly enthusiastic about this idea. Duo, who wasn't sure what the first demonstration of magic to Heero and Quatre had been (though he'd certainly been told at some point, and had merely forgotten), watched with some interest. 

Trowa went to stand before Quatre's father again, with a look as steady and emotionless as Mr. Winner had given him a minute before. Finally he said, "Excuse me, sir," and startled the man somewhat by putting an arm around his shoulders in a gesture that in the present instance looked far more awkward than comradely. Realizing the undoubted purpose of this movement, Duo knew what Trowa intended and was therefore not surprised at the spell that followed, nor at the sudden disappearance of both Trowa and Mr. Winner from the room.


	206. La Confrérie de la Lune Révéré Part 43

  


Sticky, stiff, headachy, angry -- it never seemed to change. 

Unless something very serious had happened just before he went to sleep the night before, Quatre typically awoke refreshed and with his mood a blank slate for the coming day. But he endeavored not to think about the contrast between 'typically' and 'now.' Here, in this terminally wet air, on this narrow cot, bloated with magical energy he couldn't get rid of, waking from aggravating dreams, his state upon rising was every bit as unpleasant as it had been upon going to bed last night. 

Last night? He wasn't even sure what day it was. Thursday, he believed, which meant he'd been in this place for almost a week now, and to no goddamn purpose whatsoever. It was difficult to ignore the fact that his entire life had evidently become a complete waste of time. 

He threw off the blanket and sat up, making an annoyed noise as his bare feet touched the bare floor. It couldn't be called 'clammy' because it was already warm in here, but the effect was much the same: an uncomfortable moistness that made him feel dirty and his breaths thick and difficult to draw. Who the hell had decided this was a good place to settle down? Even when it _wasn't_ being torn apart by hurricanes and submerged in floods, it felt as if it was only one step away from those or some similarly wet fate. 

As he tried to stretch out the stiffness induced by a bed on which it was nearly impossible to find any more comfortable position than board-flat on his back, he looked for the millionth time around the room as if something in it might have changed during the night. But there was no alteration whatsoever to the quality of the morning light from the little cloudy windows beside the ceiling, the desk from which he'd swept its few surface contents in irritation, the locked file cabinets whose handles he'd pulled off and thrown across the room in an attempt to open the drawers, or the three remaining sticky-tacked corners of the poster he'd ripped off the painted brick wall a few days in when its grinning, Mardi-Gras-masked face had more or less sent him into a frenzy. 

When Nancy, a representative of La Confrérie de la Lune Révéré that seemed to believe she could use magic and enthusiasm to make up for a lack of intelligence, had approached Quatre last week with the promise that her organization could rid him of the enraging energy that was the root of all his current problems, she's also promised they would provide him with everything he might need while he stayed with them. Thus far this had meant some incredibly cheap clothing -- since he'd gone with her on the spot and therefore hadn't packed anything -- and fast food at two irregular intervals each day. 

Despite his being thus furnished with pajamas, however, he'd slept naked since the third night. The way the thin cotton stuck to his skin in this atmosphere was unendurable, made him want to tear the polka-dotted shirt and pants into rags and then burn them, assuming he could get them to burn without the aid of gasoline. So now he seized the equally flimsy and unattractive robe they'd provided him as well and donned it before heading out toward the bathroom. 

It had been an impetuous decision to go with Nancy, based on simultaneous desires to escape and to have his condition reversed, as well as on a subtle understanding that Nancy could probably abduct him by force if she wanted, and his irritation at his own thoughtlessness had been little tempered by the subsequent realization that, while he was here, he could endeavor to discover who had been behind the burning of Trowa's house and attempt to exact some recompense from them. He was trying not to think about how little thought had gone into all of this, how little he _liked_ to think about any of this... but had he known beforehand what the living conditions would be, he might have given the matter more consideration at the outset notwithstanding. 

The bathroom could better have borne the British appellation 'toilet,' or even the more universal 'shit-hole,' since there was no bath and the existing appliances barely functioned. For his personal hygiene, therefore, Quatre was forced to resort to sponge baths with hard-won water from the sink, which device further disturbed him with its old-fashioned shape and appearance by reminding him a little -- enough for discomfort, though he tried with desperate anger not to feel it -- of the one in Trowa's previous bathroom. La Confrérie had offered to clean him up by magic on a daily basis, but this Quatre had somewhat profanely refused. As if they weren't trying enough magic on his person as it was. 

Originally the terrible mirror had been merely ancient, not broken, but after the third or fourth application of Quatre's fist it had developed a spider's web of cracks that split his glaring reflection into a hundred angry fragments. He could still make out the bruise-like dark spots beneath his eyes, however, and the sunkenness of his cheeks -- could he really have lost that much weight in only a week? Or had that process started back when he'd first become possessed? Either way, damn this place. 

He sponged off, brushed his teeth, and used the toilet with a vigor that became no less irate for his having to flush three times just to get the thing to work properly. Then he threw his horrible bathrobe back on and returned to what, for lack of any better term, he must refer to as his bedroom. 

Five different members of La Confrérie had introduced themselves to him during his stay here, one of them the Vallis Rheita -- a title, not a name; legally, she was much more mundanely called Tammy Killinger -- and none of them admitted to being the ones that had set fire to Trowa's house. On this latter point, before he'd stopped himself out of a growing, self-preserving desire not to think about his boyfriend at all, Quatre had made such angry and persistent inquiries that he believed he'd rendered the entire group reluctant to talk to him except when necessary, for now they all tended to avoid him whenever it wasn't actually ritual time. 

Evidence of this was the breakfast and newspaper that had been left for him while he'd been busy in the bathroom, with no sign of who had brought it. The sight of the paper -- the cheapest best option they could come up with for his entertainment during the day -- incensed him; what the hell did he care about New Orleans news? What he wanted was his goddamn phone! Even some random book would be better than this. 

But it wasn't as annoying as the greasy McDonald's bag and Styrofoam cup standing on the desk next to the fan, which had been replaced from where Quatre had knocked it to the floor last night. Quatre loathed McDonald's breakfast, especially the coffee whose scent now filled the room. Well, at least it all still appeared to be hot -- he tended to wake each morning pretty systematically at the same time, even under such circumstances, so they knew when to send somebody to buy him breakfast -- and at least they'd scraped together a few grains of sense and supplied him with a new bottle of Tylenol to replace the one he'd used up. 

Though he really saw no point to it, he turned his attention to getting dressed before he made an attempt at mixing enough cream and sugar -- assuming they'd had the brains to bring him any -- into his coffee to make it drinkable, or to brave the horrors of the paper bag and find out whether whatever the hell was in there might be edible. 

He donned the thrift store camouflage shorts, the t-shirt advertising something from last year called 'A Night in Versailles' into whose details he didn't care to inquire, a pair of socks that would form a minimal barrier between his feet and the slimy floor, and no shoes. Of these last La Confrérie had provided him none -- perhaps the local Goodwill hadn't had his size in stock -- and the Allen Edmonds Oxfords he'd been wearing when he'd come here would probably melt their own seams and fall apart just to get off his feet if he forced them to be a part of the dreadful outfit. 

By the time he'd finished this process and the subsequent doctoring of his coffee, the latter was cool enough to drink, and along with his first gulp he swallowed three Tylenol. Something stronger would serve his needs better, since this headache certainly had the tenacity to merit a prescription, but if he were to make such a request of his 'hosts' and have it denied, it would force him to face squarely just how powerless he was in his present situation, and this he was attempting to avoid thinking about at all costs. 

The cheap smell of the hash browns and sausage biscuit that comprised his unsatisfying breakfast took him abruptly back to a lunch he'd once had with Trowa during the days when their acquaintance had been characterized by an interest and engagement almost entirely against Trowa's will -- a reminder of former, better times with someone he loved and missed combined with the idea of a situation entered upon almost entirely against its participant's will. Perfect. 

Quatre slammed his fist down onto the McDonald's bag, crumpling it to the surface of the desk and feeling the food inside smash, warm and moist, beneath his hand. Then with a growling noise in his throat he shoved the nearby fan for a second time so it clattered once again to the floor where he could not see it. His scowling eyes alighting next on the bottle of Tylenol he'd just made use of, he picked it up and hurled it against the wall with such ferocity that it popped open in an explosion of pills. 

It had come to this -- his not merely not bothering to restrain displays of anger, but actually _embracing_ that emotion and letting it suffuse him like the humid air of this abominable place since it was preferable to anything else he might be feeling, to sitting calmly and facing the complete lack of control, the fear, the misery -- but how long he could possibly go on this way he did not know. Tears already blurred his vision, and his breaths were more like sobs for almost a minute after his outburst as he forced himself to sit down on the cot and try at the same time to get a grip and continue not to think about what he didn't want to think about -- which was practically everything that mattered to him. 

When he was able, he would eat what he could of the mutilated breakfast, and undoubtedly get angry at how bad and unhealthy it tasted. Then he would attempt to read the entire newspaper, getting angry about every story and struggling not to be reminded of anything, as slowly as possible so as to drag the activity out for the maximum amount of time. How he would spend the remainder of the day after that he did not know; how he had spent the remainder of each previous day he tried not to think. 

Eventually someone would come and take him back to that room down the hall. He had access to it himself, and didn't need to be led -- it was two unlocked doors away -- but there was nothing in there besides scuffed chalk-marks and an old, plain wooden chair, and therefore no reason to visit the place without reason. 

This evening, per routine, he would assume that uncomfortable seat while whichever Confrérie members happened to be present this time bickered about the nuances of the latest variation of their ritual until his fingers twitched to wring all their necks. Then they would settle down and attempt the spell, more or less painfully to Quatre and generally futilely. After this, they would argue further about what alterations to make next, and try a second and even a third time depending on the lateness of hour when each debate was finished. 

And Quatre would take advantage of having people he didn't care about around on whom he could vent his endless anger. He hated himself for this, and some of the tears that had soaked his pillow over the last several nights had certainly been in response to a recognition he could not entirely evade of his own monstrosity. Yet there was a definite if miniscule relief to hurling verbal abuse at the Confrérie magicians -- a relief augmented by the awareness that he was _not_ hurling verbal abuse at his friends. At least he had the awareness to cling to, along with his distracting rage, that he was not actively hurting those he loved. If he could keep hold of that, and simultaneously, paradoxically keep from thinking too much about them and how wretched he was without them, he could survive another day of this.


	207. La Confrérie de la Lune Révéré Part 44

  


Despite having flown to a decent number of places over the years, in some cases before many of the people around him had even existed, Trowa always felt like an outsider at airports. This was undoubtedly because flying was a secondary if not tertiary travel option for him, and he didn't make the use of the system most people did -- he took planes back far less frequently than he took them out, for example. And he certainly would have preferred the luxury of a speedy magical jump over a tense and lengthy flight in this situation. 

As a consequence, he tried to ignore his surroundings. This was easier than it might have been, wrapped as he was in thought and allowing his friends to find their way and lead him through the twisting security line and then down the long corridors (Duo insisted on riding the moving sidewalks) to the proper gate. All around him people talked arrival and departure times on cell phones, chatted excitedly about what they'd seen and done on vacation, or speculated morosely about what the weather would be like when they arrived home. Though some part of Trowa's brain recognized the general purport of these conversations -- especially when any similar consideration applied to his own situation, such as what the weather in New Orleans would be like when they arrived -- overall it was so much meaningless noise to him. 

Having slept not at all the night before and being preoccupied with their mission, he had sat in silence during the drive here. Heero, though when Trowa glanced at him he did appear as if he might have something to say, had never said it; he probably had more sources of preoccupation even than Trowa did, what with the recently awakened communication powers that still made it wiser for him to let Duo drive than to do so himself. Duo, also more agitated than normal, had made only the occasional random comment about other drivers on the road. 

Now, however, as the three of them sat down to wait for their 9:15 flight -- Heero and Duo side-by-side in the connected seats, with their shared carry-on backpack between them on the floor and Trowa across the small aisle from them -- Heero leaned forward and asked quietly, "Did you have any luck with Mr. Winner last night?" 

This was probably what Heero had wanted to ask ever since Trowa had jumped to his apartment this morning, the circumstance being one in which Heero put more faith than Trowa did. Heero was, after all, the type of person to whom conversing one-on-one came much more easily than doing so in a group -- and one of the reasons he'd suggested Trowa initiate that private discussion had undoubtedly been to provide what he believed would be a greater chance at connecting with Quatre's father and convincing him of the truth and sincerity of what they'd said. It had been a kind and savvy thought, but Trowa was not like Heero in that respect: nothing he could say to Mr. Winner in private was any more meaningful than he what he could say (and had said) in front of his friends and Mrs. Winner (and, to some extent, Hajime). So when he answered Heero's question, he focused on the other probable reason Heero had made the suggestion: 

"You were right: jumping with him was an excellent finishing touch. It left him with no more doubts about magic." 

"Doubts about _us_ are what I was more worried about." 

With a shake of head and a gesture at the counter not far off, behind which airline employees had only just begun to gather, Trowa said, "We have our tickets; the rest can wait." Seeing that Heero did not look entirely satisfied with this, he added, "I did promise to have Quatre call him as soon as he's in a position to do so." 

Duo, who had been craning his neck to look out the big window behind him at the planes taking off and landing, now turned back toward Trowa with, "Yeah, but we have no idea when _that_ will be. Even if we find Quatre today and get him out of there, he might not be in the best frame of mind for calling his dad right away." 

"I know." Between Trowa's feelings of helplessness at the thought of his current relationship with his boyfriend's parents and his undeviating determination to do anything and everything required to get that boyfriend back as soon as possible, there was a contrast that was crushing, almost suffocating if he examined it too closely; he felt hemmed in, trapped in a narrow space with only one way out -- and that a blind one. He would do what he must, but he had no idea where that would lead, and the uncertainty was stifling. "I know," he said again. "I'm afraid we're just going to have to leave the Winners to believe whatever they're most likely to about us at this point. Hajime was right -- it was too much to ask of them all at once." 

"He was definitely right about one thing," Heero agreed regretfully: "we didn't really think that conversation through beforehand. If we hadn't been in such a hurry, if we'd sat down and thought about it longer and more clearly, we could have approached Quatre's parents more effectively." 

"We were lucky Hajime was there to step in," Trowa murmured, "and that he was communicator enough to know exactly what to say." Realizing belatedly that this wording might be taken as an attack on Heero's inferior skill, he began again quickly. "Not that you--" 

But Heero cut him short with a shake of head accompanied by the faintest trace of a smile that told him not to worry about it. This forgiving expression faded, however, as Heero said, "You know he really would have bought our tickets for us?" Whatever silent conversation between Heero and Hajime had revealed this fact did not seem an entirely pleasant memory, and Trowa wondered if Heero had taken more telepathic censure for their lack of forethought than Hajime had offered aloud. "He didn't want to, if he could help it, but he would have." 

Duo made a sound of indifference that was belied by its own intenseness. "Who cares? We're on our way now, and we'll get Quatre back here, and everything will be fine!" The tone of his voice and the movement by which he jumped to his feet and faced the counter, where some kind of preliminary boarding had just been announced, held a restrained agitation or even excitement that was not entirely explained by the situation but which Trowa did not mind. He must appreciate any enthusiasm directed toward reaching and helping Quatre right now. 

It felt like an hour and a half before they were permitted to get on the plane, in the wake of the first class ticket-holders, the 'Platinum Premier Members,' the handicapped and elderly, and those with young children, though in reality it couldn't have been more than about ten minutes. Trowa spent this time continuing or retreading the considerations and plans that had occupied him all night and morning. 

Five in the evening would have come and gone by the time they found the place, which probably meant the gallery was likely to be as full as it ever was of Confrérie members having finished up at their day jobs. Could Trowa possibly count on the esteem in which they held him to carry his point? Could he anticipate walking in there like a celebrity condescending to the masses and getting exactly what he wanted? Or was he in for a fight? 

In the former case, the encounter would be as smooth and easy as any other meeting with weird fans. In the latter... he mustn't forget that the spell used to burn his house had been neat and powerful, the one that had brainwashed the onlookers almost incredibly so. He would be up against formidable foes here, armed himself with only a diminished strength whose use he was relearning and two supporters that, while staunch, were not exactly optimally trained. 

He'd thought about the artifacts that had formed peripherally to the candlestick, considered bringing one of these with him to augment his own magical energy, but decided against it. The problem with artifacts was that they affected _all_ nearby spellcasting, and therefore couldn't be depended on to aid only the person that owned or carried them. In any case, he hadn't yet had time or inclination to examine these peripheral artifacts in detail, so it was probably better to leave them alone for now. 

Even in the midst of this reverie, Trowa couldn't help but notice the distinct spring in Duo's steps that resounded in the hollow Jetway down which they walked toward the plane. Whence this excessive alertness came could not be guessed, but it raised Trowa's spirits a little to see how ready Duo was for today's venture. 

A glance at the folded paper he was scarcely aware he held led Trowa to an aisle seat about halfway down, and it only occurred to him belatedly that he should have paid attention to their divergent placement earlier so as to trade with Heero, who'd broken from them three or four rows up, and allow him to sit nearer to Duo. Deeming it too awkward and inconvenient to conduct this shuffle now, he merely sat, having no luggage of his own to worry about, and watched abstractedly as the other passengers situated theirs. 

In contrast to Trowa's detached observation, Duo's attention seemed to be endlessly and minutely engaged by everything around him. Evidently he greatly relished the placement of his backpack in the overhead compartment, but even more to examine the various parts of the cabin and its passengers; his braid swung and twisted and whipped with the enthusiasm of his turning in various directions to get a good look at everything, and more than one of their fellow travelers glanced at him with some amusement or annoyance before he managed to take his seat across the aisle from Trowa. 

Then, casting his gaze over at his friend and opening his mouth, he checked briefly, seemed to rethink what he'd been about to say, and instead offered in a reassuring tone, "Don't worry, Trois..." He had to wait for someone to pass between them before continuing. "When we looked the gallery up online, it was really easy to find..." After another pause he finished, "And we made a map and everything, so we should be able to drive straight there from the airport." 

Trowa nodded gravely, and, though he had little to say and much to think about, decided somewhat impetuously to come up with a reply that would turn this into a lasting exchange. Duo's conversation was almost always cheering, and talking to him, even around other people and across the aisle, was sure to help keep Trowa distracted over the next five hours. At the very least, it would prevent him from actively counting down those hours, and the minutes and seconds that comprised them, and driving himself crazy long before they reached New Orleans.


	208. La Confrérie de la Lune Révéré Part 45

Driving the route to the airport for the very first time; taking note of which lot they'd parked in so as to be able to find the car again whenever they came back; the desire, repressed only with difficulty, to have luggage to check rather than just a carry-on; the necessity of shoe removal and a search of pockets for metal objects at the security check; another barely repressed desire, this one that the TSA folks would find some reason to scan him with that wand thing; the moving sidewalks that went faster than you expected; the sights and sounds of planes taking off and landing outside the huge, convenient window; the feel of the tunnel thing leading to the airplane; the hum of the latter, its compactness and unique smell -- with an ongoing effort of gladiatorial proportions, Duo had restrained a comment or even a lengthy rave on each of these aspects of this his _very first flight as a human_. 

Heero, of course, had heard it all, and had on more than one occasion repressed a smile. Duo was aware that his feelings must be evident to his boyfriend, but, as in at least one previous instance, thought it would be a poor gesture to show his excitement and thereby perhaps seem to make light of the reason they were taking this flight at all. He was worried about Quatre too, naturally, and determined to help him, and didn't want to appear to be disregarding the worry and determination of his companions. Heero respected this attitude, and, though he personally wouldn't have objected to overt expressions of the happier side of Duo's frame of mind, had merely appreciated that happier side in silence. 

Now, however, actually seated in the airplane, Heero wished he had said something. 

His friends were across the aisle from each other three rows behind him, and Duo's increasing anticipation was by far the most easily discernible thought in the sea of thoughts close-packed around Heero. Duo's desire to share with someone his excitement about the impending takeoff was growing with every moment, and not only did Heero wish he could indulge that desire, he thought it would cheer Trowa to do so as well. 

One thing he'd already learned about his communication powers as they thus stood was that trying to piece together the conversation of two people he could not physically hear, only one of whom could he get anything from mentally, was difficult and generally not very successful. The comprehension the first person had of what the second said usually took place on a mental level just below the one that was all Heero could currently access, and the surface thoughts he could read didn't always entirely relate to the conversation. 

Nevertheless, what he was vaguely picking up from Duo's head at the moment, through the mental noise of many other passengers and Duo's own mixed frame of mind, was the idea that Trowa was talking somewhat disjointedly and at random, seeming distracted but probably in reality _seeking_ distraction. He might appreciate having a pleasant and engrossing topic introduced, but it didn't seem to have occurred to Duo that it might not be inappropriate to introduce it. 

Heero was, therefore, about to take this upon himself from afar. True, it was embarrassing to think that he and Trowa might not be the only people on the plane with communication magic and that, in his unpracticed inability to send ideas precisely to one person, he might alert more than just Trowa of the fact that this was Duo's first flight as a human, but he thought it would still be worth it. He was busy trying to package the thought as concisely as possible in preparation for sending it out when he was abruptly checked. 

Surprise and pain replaced Duo's excitement and joy so swiftly and completely that the shift came like an electric shock out of nowhere to Heero, which prevented him for a few moments from determining its cause. But as he subsequently filtered clumsily through the maelstrom of thoughts that was Duo's reaction to whatever had just happened, he began to realize what it had been. 

What had prompted Trowa to say it could not be discerned -- something about Quatre and secrets -- but he had revealed that, back when he'd been looking forward to the breaking of the curse, there had also been some concern that he might die when that otherwise desirable event took place. And that this, several months later, was the first Duo had heard of that concern, unmerited as events had proven it, fully explained Duo's sudden alteration of mood. 

Heero himself was very surprised at the news, though not necessarily at the fact that Trowa had concealed it for so long, but more than that he was aching, all at once, with echoes of Duo's shock and betrayal. Reeling with the suddenness and unpleasantness of this revelation, Duo was all the more unhappy because it seriously threatened his hopes of getting any enjoyment out of this flight. And Heero, separated from him by a vast gulf of three rows, was unable to offer any comfort. 

Impetuously, though, he decided to do more than just curse the seating arrangement. While they were still taxiing, at least, he had options, delinquent though they might be. Before he could talk himself out of it, he snapped his seat belt open, silently grateful that he too was beside the aisle and didn't have to climb over anyone, and stood. He moved so quickly that he'd actually reached his friends and fixed his eyes on the place next to Duo before anyone could say anything. Then he ignored the call from further down the plane of, "Sir, please go back to your seat!" as well as a subsequent announcement over the speaker reiterating that the 'fasten seatbelt' sign was turned on and the plane about to take off, in favor of addressing the startled woman beside his boyfriend: 

"_Please_ will you trade seats with me." He gestured in the direction he'd come. 

Whether his low tone was serious enough to convince thoroughly, whether she'd observed Duo's sudden agitation and recognized that Heero was here to help, or whether she simply didn't want to start a debate that would lengthen an awkward scene, Heero didn't know -- he wasn't reading anything from her head -- but it didn't matter much. As she immediately undid her own seat belt, rose, and squeezed past Heero in the direction he'd indicated, he murmured a thanks as intense as his request. Then he took her place, buckled in, and looked at Duo for the first time since they'd separated. 

As usual, Duo's demeanor was a fairly good mirror of his mental state. He was astonished at what he'd discovered, appalled that an event for which he'd so long yearned might have killed his best friend, angry and pained that Trowa had left him ignorant of such an important consideration... and it was all as evident in his face as in the thoughts Heero could read. But the fact that that face was turned down toward where his hands shook in his lap showed that his instinct not to hurt Trowa was as strong as ever, reflected his struggle not to shout out that this was something that never should have been concealed from him. 

A flight attendant appeared just in time to see the hand Heero had reached out clasped tightly, irately in both of Duo's, and Heero picked up from her a sudden belief that the seat-changing had only taken place in order to offer support in the face of pretty severe anxiety on Duo's part. She didn't think it worth offering a reprimand, and therefore, after confirming that Heero's seat belt was properly fastened, made her way back to her own place for takeoff. 

Duo still hadn't said anything, which would have been disconcerting if Heero had been unable to see the effort that was going on in his head: he was trying to calm his whirling thoughts, trying not to lash out at Trowa, and trying hardest of all to push everything away for now in order to grasp at the last scraps of gratification available to him today. There were a couple of very good reasons not to dwell on what he'd just learned and how it had made him feel, and he tried to behave in accordance with them. 

In late July, Heero and Duo had driven up to the state fair and spent the day on thrill rides, and with those roller coasters for contrast, the physical sensations of taking off could be nothing particularly spectacular even to someone that had never felt them before... but it was the principle of the thing: this experience was something to be interested in and concentrated on at every minute point, and if sorrow and wrath overwhelmed his other feelings, it couldn't be properly checked off the list of experiences he needed to have. 

Heero felt Duo's grip on his hand loosen somewhat. Duo took a deep, shoulder-lifting breath and looked over at him with a determined expression, at which Heero nodded his understanding and encouragement. Duo had always been good at gleaning satisfaction from a collection of negative feelings; he should be able to do it again now. 

Unfortunately, Trowa could not know how the situation progressed. Undoubtedly he still hadn't realized this was Duo's first flight as a human, nor that Duo, in order to enjoy that flight and avoid suffering unduly for the rest of the day, was attempting not to think about what had just come to light. All Trowa could be aware of right now was that he'd misstepped and hurt his friend, and that he needed to do what he could to put it right. 

"I'm sorry, Duo," he said, leaning into the aisle with dismayingly bad timing as the plane began to pick up speed. "I probably should have told you then instead of now, but I didn't want--" 

Instead of starting to mend things as had surely been intended, these words only served to drag Duo back down into the thoughts and emotions he was trying to avoid at the moment. He interrupted, loudly and far more harshly than Trowa had spoken and without turning his eyes toward him: "Can we talk about it later?" 

The wretched Trowa looked like a person overloaded, who has had added to his burden another awkwardly shaped item that, far from settling into and balancing with the rest, has actually tumbled off and now needs to be chased and retrieved with hands that already aren't free. Heero didn't know why Trowa had told Duo what he had in the first place or what he'd thought the result would be, but guessed that Trowa hadn't anticipated such a strong reaction and that now, not relishing a source of additional turmoil as they headed into an already emotional and potentially dangerous situation, he very much wanted to get this dealt with. 

Continuing to press the issue, however -- as it looked a bit like Trowa planned to do -- was not, Heero deemed, the most desirable course of action. Not only did Duo want to put off thinking about it, there was also the matter of their neighbors to consider: more than one of the people in the seats around them had, thanks to Heero's precipitous move, had their attention drawn to the discussion and were now watching surreptitiously but curiously to see how this drama they so little understood would play out. The conversation would be better held in private another time when there were fewer conflicting desires and fewer eavesdroppers. 

To this end, Heero leaned forward past Duo and said firmly, "Later, Trowa. Really." Then, out of pity for his friend's evident misery and hoping an expression of empathy would help Trowa feel better enough about the situation to drop it for now, he added, "I understand why you didn't tell him, but you can explain it to him later." 

Even before this statement was finished, Heero realized he'd committed the same blunder Trowa had: failed to consider fully the probable effect of his words before saying them. As Duo's hands withdrew abruptly from his and a rerun of the sudden shock and betrayal from earlier played in Duo's head, he saw he'd only managed to make things worse. 

Duo turned an unhappy look toward him, about to demand how Heero could possibly claim understanding with the hurtful thing Trowa had done, then shook his head and straightened instead to stare fiercely at the seatback in front of him. Similarly, Heero opened his own mouth to explain, to contradict the notions that were already springing up in Duo's mind... and then, with an effort of will, shut it in an attempt to follow his own advice. 

The problem with following that advice was that he and Trowa had managed, between them, to make a huge mess of the upcoming five hours, if not far beyond that, rendering the time between _now_ and the _later_ Heero had urged a painful prospect indeed.


	209. La Confrérie de la Lune Révéré Part 46

  


How Duo got through the trip to New Orleans he supposed he would never know. Prior events had rendered unfeasible sitting still and thinking, and the whole plan had been so last-minute that he hadn't brought anything with which to entertain himself. The flight, of course, _did_ have some engrossing features, but these were not nearly as distracting as they would have been prior to Trowa's revelation... and whiling away the time by talking to either of his companions was obviously out of the question. 

He did eventually insist, in as friendly a tone as he could command, that they buy some in-flight refreshments. This had a threefold purpose: first, because Duo couldn't imagine neglecting this important part of an airplane ride; second, to get some caffeine into everyone's system for the upcoming confrontation, whatever it might be; and, third, as proof that, while some on Duo's part might be less than perfectly soft, there were at least no hard feelings that would survive a proper discussion after their important business had been dealt with. 

And eventually they did arrive. At their destination it became easier to think exclusively about what they were here to do and about poor Quatre than about what he'd been striving all day to push aside. He hated having to push it aside, having to put off confronting it and getting everything worked out, but that was what the situation demanded. And at least the interestingly humidity, the sights and sounds of another airport, the process of locating the proper car rental place, the extraction from their backpack of the map they'd carefully made back home, and the fascination of getting the feel of an entirely new car were distracting and invigorating circumstances. 

Still, it was at least seven minutes into the twenty-five they spent driving away from the airport before anyone said anything more than was absolutely required. Heero, looking up at last from the map in which he'd been rather unnecessarily buried (since the route to the part of Burgundy Street they needed was fairly simple), took a deep breath as if steeling himself and said, "We should decide what we're going to do when we get there." 

"My guess," Trowa replied reluctantly from the back seat, "is that at least some of the members of this group will recognize me on sight, and I don't know how they'll react. It may not be a good idea for me to walk straight in there." 

Heero nodded. "So you wait in the car while Duo and I go into the gallery and see if I can pick up anything helpful from anyone's head." 

"Not in the car," Duo put in. "Remember, the place we're parking is, like, half a block from the gallery? He'll want to be closer than that." 

At his words, he thought the tension among them palpably lessened. Though he didn't feel he'd been in the wrong with his reactions, it only made sense that his friends had been wary of him since his very obvious displeasure with both of them on the airplane; it was good for them all to come back from the edge they'd been on and focus on the matter at hand. Not that the matter at hand was all that far from the edge to begin with. But perhaps this was a different edge. 

"Outside, then," Trowa amended. "Maybe just around the corner. Then you can text me anything you think I need to know, and I'll join you whenever it seems best." 

They spent the rest of the drive fine-tuning this admittedly very basic plan in much greater ease of interaction than they'd had all day, and the atmosphere among them had decidedly improved by the time they reached the parking garage for whose use they'd already paid online last night. 

It felt surreal to walk, thereafter, through early-evening streets that, while certainly novel and picturesque and enjoyable to someone only relatively recently human, were still just normal streets. It seemed as if there should be more to this, more required of them to get to where Quatre was, and it called to Duo's mind something Heero had once said: _"That's it? No blood sacrifice? No dragons to fight or Nome Kings to outwit?"_ Of course the real test was yet to come, since they had no idea how La Confrérie would react to their presence and their demands, but at the moment their heroic endeavors toward the rescue of their friend amounted to getting on an airplane and driving a rental car (neither of which they'd paid for), then walking half a block. It seemed too easy. 

"Knock on wood," Heero murmured as he evidently picked up on this reflection. Duo gave a brief, grim laugh. 

Galerie de la Lune was exactly as they'd seen it in the vision Dorothy had provided with her divination, but in person could be examined at greater leisure and in more detail. Clearly the place had undergone many a repurposing since it had been built several decades or even over a century ago and gone since then undamaged, like much of the neighborhood, by hurricane and flood. The doors opening onto the balconies on the front of the building had evidently long been sealed up, probably because (as could already be observed through the windows even from outside) the interior second floor no longer existed. 

A number of poles bearing multicolored banners stood out at regular intervals from the balcony railings, and though at the moment a lack of any wind hid many of their designs from sight, Duo remembered a few of them from the vision: besides the United States flag that was easily recognized even in a half folded state, there was that of France, something with fleur-de-lis on it, and a couple in black with white crescents of various widths. 

The hand-painted, mural-style sign that identified the place against a backdrop of colorful nebulae and glittering stars, with an enormous moon in the foreground beneath the word 'Lune,' he remembered from the divination, but now he had time to read the sign beside the door as well: 

Celebrating magic and the revered moon since 1874  
New display every month Most art available for purchase  
½ of every $5 admission and ⅓ of every art sale donated  
To Mercy Corps for the assistance of Hurricane Katrina victims 

As Duo's eyes ran over the hours the gallery was open to the public, then the other half of the sign that said presumably the same things in French, he remarked in some interest, "This place is older than we are, Trois." But when he looked up to find his friend and get his reaction, he found that Trowa had fallen out of step with them and was waiting, as discussed, in the shadows between this building and the previous. Duo nodded, waved briefly at him, and turned back toward the door. 

"Ready?" Heero murmured, reaching for the handle. When Duo nodded again, Heero opened the way forward, and they both went inside. 

They found their view of the bulk of the interior immediately blocked by a large false wall of canvas on which was painted a giddy set of conflicting images advertising the current show. The path further in was strung across with a velvet rope beside which stood a bored-looking employee. Less bored-looking was the woman behind the desk that, with its fantastic painted color scheme, was almost camouflaged against the equally colorful canvas behind. The woman herself appeared somewhat new-agey with her long dress that melted from white to pale grey to deep blue and back and her jewelry composed of various stones, and the silver moons scattered throughout made her fit right in at Galerie de la Lune. 

"Hi! Come on in!" she greeted them. "Tomorrow's the last day of our Vitalité show, so you've made it just in time!" Duo had been expecting a southern accent such as he'd heard in passing during the walk from the parking garage, but was disappointed to find that she sounded as dully Midwestern as he did himself. "It's five dollars per person." 

With a gravity disproportionate to the role of casual museum-goer, Heero nodded, withdrawing his wallet and stepping toward the desk without a word. When he'd paid for their entry, it looked like he would again have said nothing, only given another nod and turned away, but he rallied himself -- perhaps in response to Duo's mental concern that his silence seemed a little unnatural -- and gave instead a verbal thanks. Still, Duo thought the woman was watching them curiously as they bypassed the velvet rope lifted for them by the other employee. 

This latter said nothing to them, but as they walked away he made some low comment to his co-worker, and Duo was pleased to catch the accent he'd been waiting to match up to those he imperfectly remembered from the last time he'd been in Louisiana some sixty years before. 

"The woman thinks I'm an Asian tourist who probably doesn't speak much English," Heero murmured, sounding faintly amused. 

Duo laughed absently, his attention straying to the free-standing wall and the paintings thereon that were obviously designed to give a striking first impression of the gallery's current collection. And striking they were. Unsurprisingly, the main feature, on a canvas perhaps eight feet tall and half as wide, showed the moon in a set of completely unnatural yet very attractive lime greens and bright yellows that made the scene look more like a flower garden than a cold view of space. This was surrounded by contrastingly small square pictures asymmetrically arranged, in complementing colors and often themes, so that the whole setup, not excluding the little white informational tag next to each, came together in an effect greater than the sum of its parts. At least, so Duo thought. 

"They're trying to decide how to pronounce my last name on the credit card receipt," Heero said next. 

"Nothing useful so far, then." Duo glanced around, taking in at once a feeling of openness and distance created by the ceiling full of skylights far above and an almost mazelike quality to the moveable walls of varying heights set up throughout what seemed to be a fairly vast area -- probably the majority of the building having been cleared of individual rooms. "Anyone else in here?" 

Heero frowned faintly. "I think there are at least two more people, but they're further away. Come on." He took Duo's arm and guided him into walking around the first display. 

Next they found themselves in a sort of lane between another pair of free-standing walls, these full of colorful images of very inaccurate and dramatic-looking spellcasting. Of course the art La Confrérie collected did not necessarily need to show _real_ magic when fictional portrayals could celebrate the practice just as well, but some of the poses and dazzling visible effects shown here were a little silly. Duo, however, didn't spend very long looking at any of the many paintings arranged along this aisle, as a large piece down at the end had seized his attention and drawn him toward it. 

Heero moved with him as if similarly compelled, and they came to a halt at a T-junction facing the picture on the next wall, staring in mutual discomfort for several long, still moments. 

"That's definitely Trowa," Duo said at last, in a near whisper.


	210. La Confrérie de la Lune Révéré Part 47

Duo's quiet but harsh pronouncement seemed to carry uncannily through the high-ceilinged room, bouncing off one canvas after another as if determined to reach the wrong ears. Heero just nodded. 

The picture, done in some kind of thick paint that looked solid inches deep in places, showed the Trowa of the curse gazing down at them with cratered crescent eyes from a face with barely any human tint to its bleached skin. The window that framed him opened onto a deep blue-black night, against which his old-fashioned suit coat of similar color was barely visible but his unnatural paleness stood out vividly, much like the moon that was half concealed by and formed a sort of halo around the top of his head. 

Heero was reminded of a certain type of old portrait in which the subject would hold some expensive treasure in a casual, accidental sort of way (in direct contrast to the stiffness of their pose and the overall contrived nature of the piece) in order to document the family's ownership of said trinket. The pictured Trowa held a silver candlestick as if it he'd just happened to pick it up before stepping in front of the window, and yet very clearly it was as important a part of the whole as Trowa himself -- though this feeling of importance might have been caused by the slicing rent in the canvas that neatly bisected the artifact just above where the white hand of the painted Trowa clutched it. 

"That's how they knew," Duo said with absolute certainty in his tone. His unspoken expansion on the subject Heero also caught: Duo could feel the power in the piece, which had probably been painted and enspelled simultaneously in some sort of artistic ritual, and knew beyond any doubt that this was the sympathetic magic Trowa had suspected La Confrérie of using to keep a distant, generalized eye on both him and the artifact. The damage to the canvas must have occurred spontaneously when the candlestick was destroyed, leaving the group to believe, very naturally, that Trowa had done it. 

"I think Trowa probably shouldn't see this if we can help it," Heero murmured, thinking that the unease he felt in looking at this curse-era picture of his friend would only be stronger in that friend himself. 

Duo glanced at him sharply, conflicted. Though signs of concern for Trowa from Heero still pleased him, this couldn't but remind him of Heero's unexpected traitorous declaration of understanding on the airplane. But Duo was determined to deal with that later, and so said nothing. 

He had no chance to say anything in any case, for at that moment someone else spoke in evident reply to Heero's statement: "You _know_ Trowa Barton??" 

Physically she had approached without noise -- or at least quietly enough to be masked by their engrossment in the painting -- and psychically Heero had (and still) heard nothing from her. But in her excitement, her words just now had echoed far more loudly through the room than Duo's whisper had done, and Heero immediately caught from somewhere off to his right the sense that someone else had heard, recognized the name 'Trowa' even from afar, and started immediately in this direction. 

"We--" Duo turned toward the newly arrived woman, and cut himself off sharply before he could reveal anything. Though he did not look at Heero, he clearly intended him to hear the what-to-do-next options turning over in his head. 

Heero was for a moment unsure. This woman's silent mind wouldn't be much help, but perhaps whoever was making their way over here could provide more information. Unfortunately, if that person wasn't actively thinking about Quatre, they weren't likely to reveal whether he was here, his mental and physical state, how to get to him, and whether Heero and Duo might be allowed to. Mentioning Quatre directly would probably prompt those thoughts, but it would also completely destroy any cover they had left. Wasn't that cover already blown, though, by this woman having overheard Trowa's name? 

If the expert brainwashing communicator was in the building, all deception was probably futile from the beginning, but that was a chance they'd been aware they must take when walking into this situation. In any case, could Heero admit that he did indeed know Trowa personally without rousing suspicions that he might be connected to Quatre as well? Could he work a conversation about Trowa around to a point where it would spark thoughts of Quatre in one of these people's heads without his having to bring him up? 

He had to give it a try. Bluntness was a last resort here; he wanted answers to his questions before answering any himself. So he turned back to the portrait of Trowa and, feigning greater expertise than he really had, asked, "Who did this? It's excellent magic." 

"I won't give the tourist explanation," the woman said breathlessly, "if y'all actually _know_ Mr. Barton _personally_..." Here she paused, glancing from Heero to Duo as if hoping one of them would jump in with confirmation, but when they didn't she continued. "It was done by a Mr. Jacob Comeaux, who was a great painter and a great diviner, in, I think, '76." She stepped over to the work in question and glanced at the informative tag beside it. "No, sorry, '78. I never get that right. Did y'all say you actually know Mr. Barton?" 

The other person had arrived and stopped nearby, off to the right where Heero couldn't quite see him, and was now, having heard the woman's query, waiting in eager silence for a reply. The amount of awe and excitement in his head regarding Trowa and the possibility of being in the presence of even merely someone that had met him in person was so pronounced as to be almost comical. That was, perhaps, a good sign. 

Though of course neither Heero nor Duo actually gave the desired facts. While Heero was trying to think fast and decide what would be best to say instead, Duo jumped in. "Why's the picture damaged?" he asked with a gesture, ironically reversing Heero's act by feigning _less_ expertise than he really had. Heero could tell that what he would _really_ like to know was how much spying had been required back in 1978 in order to paint this so accurately and magically link it to Trowa in some way or other; but to ask this, besides being potentially antagonistic, would be to indicate at least a little concern for the privacy of his friend and might reveal that Trowa was, in fact, his friend. 

"It's linked to the Roussel artifact as well as to Mr. Barton." Pride sounded in the woman's voice as she revealed these details of magical craftsmanship, but Heero thought she was baiting them as well: only if they were already aware that the artifact had been destroyed would her words actually answer Duo's question. She was still trying to find out to what extent they knew what was going on in Trowa's life. 

The exchange had been specifically useful, however, since it had gotten the other guy, who still hadn't said anything, thinking about the artifact. The esteem in which that item seemed to be held by him was very similar to that in which he held Trowa -- objectifyingly similar, Heero thought; it was a little creepy. But hopefully it was only a small jump from thoughts of the artifact to thoughts of the man that had chopped the thing in half. 

So Heero hurriedly put in, "Yes, he destroyed the candlestick, didn't he?" 

The woman looked as if she wasn't sure whether to be excited or disappointed. Heero's words would probably seem, to her, to pinpoint his relationship with Trowa: close enough to know that he'd given up the artifact, but not enough to know that Trowa himself hadn't carried out its destruction. "So you _do_ know him?" she wondered yet again. 

And he'd succeeded. Quatre had come up in the other guy's head. Heero said nothing more, allowing Duo to do whatever he wanted with the conversation, and concentrated on getting all he could from the stranger. 

Trowa's boyfriend had actually been the one to destroy Roussel's artifact -- how weird was that? That Trowa Barton, who had been for so long little short of a demigod to so much of La Confrérie, had turned out to be gay, really changed the way a lot of people saw him. Some felt that it took them back to their roots, since many of the very first meetings of the organization back in France had involved a lot of gay activity... but since those original meetings had also taken place before the group had become serious about the moon and magic, some of today's members regarded gay Trowa Barton a symbol rather of that early frivolity than of any more profound beliefs or intentions. 

The group had already been divided about him, after all. Many considered him the pinnacle of magical mastery with a deeper connection to the moon than they would ever have, his immortality representative of the eternal nature of man's connection with magic and with the moon. Others saw him as an interloper that had only come by accident upon Roussel's artifact and the longevity it had subsequently granted, and therefore unworthy of reverence and having no right to decide what to do with the artifact that _their_ predecessors had created and that properly should be in their hands and not his. Part of La Confrérie would have elected Trowa Barton their supreme leader for life if he'd so much as looked in their direction; another part had cheered when the news had gotten out that some of them had discovered where he lived and set fire to his house. 

Very little of the anger of that portion of the group had shifted when they'd discovered that Trowa's boyfriend had been the one to destroy the artifact. Quatre Winner couldn't know the significance of what he'd done, as he wasn't a magician himself -- but there was another subject of shock and contention: how could Trowa Barton, _the_ Trowa Barton, certainly old and skilled, whatever he meant to them, be dating a non-magician? He should have known better than to allow someone like that access to something as important as Roussel's artifact! Now that power and that glorious link to the moon and all the years of Confrérie history were lost to him forever; his boyfriend had become extremely unpleasant to be around (assuming he'd been a decent guy in the first place); and La Confrérie had to go to a lot of trouble to put together a new artifact. Not that their efforts thus far had been anything more than harmful to the relatively innocent Quatre to no material effect. 

Duo, it seemed, had continued hinting at knowing Trowa without actually confirming it, but Heero had been too busy following the nearby thoughts -- more about Trowa than about Quatre mostly because the stranger was paying more attention to the conversation than Heero was -- to listen carefully. And now, prompted by a few more stray reflections, he decided the exchange and what more it could accomplish didn't much matter. He knew what he needed to know, and their last resort, he believed, had arrived. 

Turning entirely away from the discussion, he pulled his phone from his pocket. That he had adequate service here had already reassured him a little; he hadn't necessarily feared not having any coverage in the biggest city in Louisiana, but it would be just their luck at this point. Now he sent Trowa a text that read, _Quatre in building. They're trying their rituals, confirmed painful, on him RIGHT NOW. Come inside._


	211. La Confrérie de la Lune Révéré Part 48

  


When Heero started moving away from the painting of Trowa into and down the next aisle, Duo of course followed, and this more or less towed the two Confrérie people after them. Why they were thus migrating Duo couldn't be sure -- whether Heero had picked up from someone the direction in which they would eventually find Quatre or whether he just wanted to leave the unnerving picture of their friend -- but it seemed hopeful. Duo was getting tired of this stupid conversation anyway. 

It nevertheless continued for another minute or so on basically nothing, Duo still providing evasive nonsense to the best of his ability and the woman he was talking to increasingly curious and frustrated, until everyone's attention was seized by a shriek from the entrance. Interesting rather than worrisome, the sound led into a noisy and ongoing squealing that, while not clearly comprehensible from here, certainly contained the words 'Trowa Barton.' 

The two Confrérie members in the immediate vicinity threw Duo one more look, wide-eyed, then hurried off in some agitation. Wryly Duo smiled, and wondered as he and Heero continued more leisurely the same way, "Showtime?" 

Heero nodded and said quietly, "I thought we'd have a better chance from here with Trowa with us." 

The sound of excited chattering grew louder as they approached, and Duo heard nothing of Trowa's voice from the midst of it; he wouldn't be surprised if Trowa had not one single word to say to these fans until he'd gotten a clearer idea of what was going on here. Wouldn't _that_ frustrate the Confrérie members! 

They stopped before the green and yellow moon again, and from there could make out some individual parts of the conversation (bombardment, more accurately) on the other side of the big canvas wall. 

"...hoping you'd pass by us here when your friends..." 

"...so incredibly honored to have you here in our..." 

"...not too much trouble, could you possibly sign..." 

"...can't believe the real Trowa Barton is actually..." 

Suddenly, the guy that had previously manned the velvet rope came sprinting out and disappeared deeper into the gallery, and the startled Heero barely had time to report that he was heading off to fetch some magical trinket he wanted Trowa to autograph before Trowa himself also appeared. 

He moved silently toward Heero and Duo, followed by the still-chattering other three Confrérie members, and, as he stopped in front of his friends, reached out and took a hand of each. "No one else should be able to hear what we say as long as we're linked by skin," he informed them. He cocked his head as if to listen -- probably feeling out the spell to make sure it had taken properly despite not being cast in the presence of two of its subjects -- and seemed satisfied. 

"Good thinking," Duo commended. 

Heero wasted no time. "There's an entire faction of this group that doesn't like you, and that guy who just ran off is likely to tell practically everyone that you're here. These three will probably do whatever you say, though." 

"Are any of them communicators?" asked Trowa. 

"Not that I can tell." 

Trowa nodded sharply and, releasing his friends' hands, turned back to face the breathless others. They'd fallen silent while attempting (futilely, Duo hoped) to listen to the exchange between the real Trowa Barton and his friends, and now they all leaned forward in a comically simultaneous motion as the real Trowa Barton spoke to them for the first time: 

"I'm here for Quatre Winner. Please take me to him." 

Two of the Confrérie members gave meaningless exclamations, possibly merely from the excitement of having been addressed directly, and the third looked uncertainly at them and then back at Trowa. They didn't quite go into a huddle, since they all seemed loath to turn away from their idol, but they did put their heads together and speak in low tones. 

"Are you sure we should--" 

"Do you really want to say no to--" 

"But the ritual's still--" 

"Everyone's back there anyway, and they'll all want to--" 

Meanwhile, Heero mimicked Trowa's earlier movement and seized both his hand and Duo's. "Back this way there's a door into the warehouse; stairs down at the other end lead to the offices, and Quatre's in the farthest room." 

Having heard this, Trowa didn't wait for the Confrérie folks to reach a consensus; he turned immediately in the direction Heero indicated. They'd barely gone four steps, however, when one of the people behind them called out, "No, I'm coming, sir; I'll show you!" 

The guy darted out in front of them and began hastening along backward (still obviously reluctant to take his eyes off Trowa) in the character of very awkward guide, while the two women hurried after. The pace of the entire party was set by Trowa's quick, determined strides, and their course far more by Heero's slight gestures than by the movements of the man before them. _He_ kept running into walls and pillars, setting paintings askew without seeming to notice or care. And the entire time, he was talking: 

"You don't know how long I've wanted to meet you, Mr. Barton, sir, but it's been most of my life, ever since my dad told me about you when I started magic when I was six or seven. I've always been trying to do something like what you did in Beaumont back in the 50's -- with the railroad tracks, I mean, sir -- but I could never figure out the spell, and I don't think I've ever quite had enough power for something like that anyways -- though I keep trying! How did you manage to make-- oh, merde." As he paused to replace the painting he'd actually knocked down this time, the others passed him. 

The wall they reached that separated gallery from warehouse had, of course, no windows, and therefore looked very tall and broad in this two-storey space. This had been taken advantage of by using it to showcase the largest of the paintings, some of them perhaps fifteen feet high and all of them attention-grabbing. Duo tried not to get distracted by their interesting depictions of the same subjects as before (some of them now larger than life) as they moved toward a big pair of swinging double doors, like those leading to the back areas of grocery stores, marked _Employés Seulement_. 

Even as Trowa reached to push one of these open, however, Heero simultaneously reached out for Trowa's hand to stop him. He fumbled for his boyfriend's as well, without looking at him, as he started talking urgently to Trowa, so the audio kicked in a little late for Duo: "--mostly _not_ your fan club collecting in there. I think -- yeah, one of them definitely helped burn you house." 

Duo glanced at the windowless swinging doors with a scowl. Damn that stupid guy running off to get his whatever for Trowa to autograph. They really should have stopped him... though there hadn't exactly been time. 

"Any sign of the brainwasher?" Trowa asked. 

"No, but I might not get any signs of someone that good." 

Duo's suggestion was, "I say you threaten them. Walk in there like, 'I'm going to level this place if you don't take me to my boyfriend right now.' Yeah, they know you don't have the artifact anymore, but even the ones that don't like you much have gotta know you're still the best." 

Trowa shook his head slightly, frowning. "I can't be sure of that." 

"Look at them, though." Despite the supposed situational deafness of the three Confrérie members that were somewhat pressing in on them, Duo's tone fell almost to a whisper as he glanced around. "These people are low-level nerds! They don't stand a chance against you -- or at least they won't think they do; they've practically worshipped you their whole lives!" 

"He's right," Heero agreed. "Try the threat first, and if they don't want to let us past to Quatre, let's be ready to fight." When Trowa, after very little time spent weighing this, signaled his concurrence, Heero mirrored the gesture and added, "Everything we talked about in the car." 

Again Trowa nodded, more firmly this time. The possibility that they would have to engage in a magical battle of sorts _had_ been discussed as they drove, and that they knew, in general, what they each must do under such circumstances was reassuring even if they had no idea what kind of situation they would be facing in the warehouse beyond. 

"Hey," Duo put in, struck, "can you tell if there's some back door we should be worried about?" 

With a frown Heero went wordless for a moment. "No," he finally said. "At least nobody's thinking about trying to smuggle Quatre out before we can get to him, anyway." 

Trowa asked, "You said they're in the middle of a ritual down there right now?" 

"That's what I'm getting," Heero confirmed, with his own glance behind at the silent, eager, uneasy Confrérie members, who were undoubtedly wondering what the holdup was... unless some communicator on the other side of the wall was already transmitting everything being thought out here to much of the group. 

"We'll have to let them finish," Trowa was saying. "Whatever they're trying can't be as dangerous as interrupting it could be." He took a deep breath. "One spell, and then we'll go in." 

As Trowa cast an augmentation of the silence he'd already placed on them to prevent their being affected by magic that sought to touch their minds or bodies directly, Duo could feel the strength behind the words. It was a good idea, but he had to wonder how much energy Trowa had used on it that he might want for other purposes in just a few minutes. 

Then they all shared a quick glance of silent inquiry as to whether they were ready -- agreeing that, as much as they could be, they were. Hands were released for the moment, nerves were steeled, and they turned and pushed forward through the great swinging doors.


	212. La Confrérie de la Lune Révéré Part 49

  


Had Heero neglected to warn him that those gathering here were primarily not his fans, Trowa would nevertheless have recognized this fact the moment they entered. Every expression turned toward them was at the very least grim, some disapproving, and a few angry and even hateful. 

Despite this space being less open, seeming to have a second storey unlike the previous, it felt more like a warehouse even than that had. Metal shelves rose all the way to the ceiling, full of neat stacks of what must be paintings sheathed in cardboard for protection. The aisles between these were long and wide, no doubt to accommodate the handling of larger pieces on the big, awkward-looking dollies that stood currently unused at various points nearby, but the overall effect was still somewhat claustrophobic. 

Across the aisle leading from the doors toward the back of the room, the area they wanted to reach, six Confrérie members were ranged in the variety of expression previously mentioned; to the right and left, about the same number of people had divided to block those aisles as well. Counting those that had entered behind them, Trowa and his friends were surrounded. Hopefully this wouldn't make some terrible difference. 

"Trowa Barton." One of the six people in front of them had come forward -- just slightly, a step and a half; she looked and sounded a trifle nervous, and didn't seem to want to leave the very near vicinity of her companions. "You and your friends are welcome here, but y'all can't go any further this way." There was some stirring and muttering at 'welcome here,' most pointedly from one of the aisles beside them. 

Heero edged closer to Trowa, and the latter felt the former's hand brush against his in a subtle connection that allowed the murmur, "Second guy on the left burned your house." 

Breaking the brief skin contact with his friend, "I don't need to go any further this way," Trowa announced, "if you'll bring Quatre out." 

"Mr. Winner can't leave until we've pulled the energy from him," the woman replied without hesitation. Someone else had joined her line from behind, and her neighbors shifting to make room seemed to give her a boost in confidence. 

"Your rituals aren't going to work. Surely you have a diviner who could tell you that. Stop whatever you're doing and bring Quatre here." Trowa could feel Duo also drawing closer to him, half turning so his back was more to Trowa than to the Confrérie members behind them. 

"It's our energy." This came from the left, and, glancing that direction, Trowa identified the voice as coming from the second man blocking the aisle in that direction -- the arsonist Heero had pointed out. He sounded vindictive and ready for a fight. "You have no right to walk in here and make demands about something that was never yours in the first place." 

"That energy may belong to this group," Trowa answered, looking back at the spokeswoman rather than addressing the arsonist, "but Quatre does not." 

"Mr. Winner is here of his own free will," the woman said. "He doesn't belong to you either, and if he wants to stay with us, that's his choice." 

"In a situation like this where his judgment is impaired, I have a better right than you to make decisions on his behalf." 

Heero touched Trowa's hand again, and his quiet words overrode, in Trowa's ear, whatever the woman had to say next. "She plans on arguing you in circles; nothing you say is going to convince her. She's on the fence about you personally, but she absolutely won't let us at Quatre if she can help it." 

Trowa glanced to either side, noting that both lines had been joined by at least one more person, and that others were gathering in spaces beyond that he couldn't see as clearly to both left and right. Not that he had any desire to go left or right; the most direct path to Quatre was all he cared about. He only had to reach a few inches to find Duo's hand, and on his other side he curled his fingers around Heero's. "Let's push straight through." 

La Confrérie must have a communicator in here somewhere, because almost the instant Trowa made this pronouncement, and before he and his friends had advanced two steps, three or four voices around them started to speak in the magical language. A couple of them, directly targeting Trowa and seeking to disable him from casting, but not powerful enough to overcome the protection he'd placed on himself and his companions, failed completely; the others began immediately erecting a barrier that would prevent the three intruders from physically reaching their goal. 

This was the most obvious step for La Confrérie to take at such a moment, and, having been part of the predictions Trowa had made during the drive from the airport, had already been discussed by him and his companions. As such, after only a moment, Heero said, "Duo, the woman who was talking to us first." 

"On it," was Duo's reply, and the spell he then began aimed at silencing the woman in question. He'd worried a little, in the car, about still being somewhat rusty with his casting, not having done extensive magic since the breaking of the curse, but he must have been working through potential spells in his head, because this one was quite solid. Knocking her out would have been more effective than simply silencing her, but a spell of unconsciousness touched on aspects of the mind that were difficult to manipulate for someone with no communication magic. 

Trowa targeted the barrier itself, which he could feel but not see only a couple of feet in front of them, more probingly than aggressively at first in order to test its strength. Typically, a spell contained only as much power as the caster chose to expend at the moment of casting, and if La Confrérie wanted to have any energy left over to do anything else, no one person would put more than a moderate amount of power into this barrier at any one time. But they could periodically reinforce it, in between their other attempts, and it was this behavior Trowa had asked Duo to try to stop if he could. 

The instant Duo's silencing efforts took effect, and the spokeswoman's spell to boost the shield's power blew up in her face, was discernible to Trowa, who was still feeling out the barrier's level of energy. If Heero and Duo could coordinate to identify and target the most powerful reinforcers of the barrier, they could prevent the invisible wall from becoming too strong, and Trowa could assess its precise power and punch through it -- assuming no one around them figured out a way to get around Trowa's protection and damage or incapacitate them first. 

"Mr. Barton, I'm so sorry about this!" someone called from behind the seven or eight people blocking the path in front of them. Whoever it was, he sounded highly embarrassed and unhappy about the situation. 

"The guy in the blue hoodie to the left," Heero said. 

"Got it," Duo replied. 

More slowly and pointedly, Trowa struck out at the barrier again. 

"Normally we'd have never attacked you if you walked in this place!" somebody was agreeing with the first that had shouted, this one from the right. There were sounds of unhappy concurrence from the people behind Trowa, a small group that as yet had cast no spells and seemed unsure what to do. 

"This isn't right!" someone else protested. "This is _Trowa Barton_, y'all! We should do what he wants!" 

"He's not one of us; he's not even close." This growling voice from the left had previously spoken a particularly nasty spell designed (though unable) to permanently damage Trowa's vocal cords, and the fact that the speaker now wasted time on argument instead of casting was promising. 

Meanwhile, Duo had silenced the arsonist with the blue hoodie, but someone had undone his previous silence on the spokeswoman, so she'd reinforced the barrier again. Trowa decided to join Duo in trying to put their enemies out of commission before attempting to deal with the shield. 

"Their communicators can hear everything you're thinking, Duo," Heero said in some annoyance. Duo swore. 

"Nothing to be done about it," Trowa said. 

"Except try to think about pink elephants," Duo muttered. 

"He's a thief and a bully!" This person, from the aisle to the right, was obviously referring to Trowa. 

Somebody else cried, "He's never done anything to _us_!" 

"And he always used Roussel's artifact to help people!" another put in. 

Trowa could hear someone in the jumble already undoing the spell Duo had placed on the arsonist. They were going to have to move faster. 

"I think third place is that guy in the white shirt on the right," Heero said, and Duo immediately went after him. 

And the arsonist chose this moment to raise a roaring line of golden white just in front of the advancing party, who might not be hurt by spells that targeted them directly but could certainly be scorched by a pre-existing fire. With a startled cry, Duo jumped back and stumbled to the floor. In that instant, losing Trowa's hand as he fell, he was hit by a retaliatory silencing spell from one of the Confrérie members, who'd obviously liked his magic enough to copy it. Whatever Duo had been casting, broken off in the middle, released its energy where he'd previously been standing with a cracking sound like gunfire, knocking Trowa down beside him with a sensation like a fist to the face. 

Worse consequences might have come of this had not a dozen Confrérie voices from all directions protested the arsonist's choice of attack. The gist of their complaints had less to do with Trowa and more with potential damage to the art all around them and to the building, and several people spoke to put the fire out almost immediately. Trowa, though he was seeing stars through the throbbing pain of the raw magical energy that had struck him, nevertheless managed to take advantage of the distraction to scramble back up and regain the hands of both his friends. 

Un-silencing Duo was easy enough, but Trowa could hear that some of their enemies, skilled at thinking on their feet, were altering their contributions to the barrier, rewording their spells so that the shield would draw power directly and continually from them. Now whether or not they were silenced and unable to cast, or possibly even whether they were conscious, would make no difference. Of course, that also meant that by attacking the shield, Trowa could use up their energy reserves much faster and put them out of the conflict more easily. 

"Someone's casting a protection spell like yours on everyone," Heero informed him. "One at a time, though." He was looking around intently, trying to figure out who it was; in the mess of voices echoing up and down the aisles, some muttering spells and some shouting argumentative points, it was nearly impossible to tell who was saying what. 

"That woman's already protected," Duo complained. 

"Get back on blue hoodie," Heero said. 

"Help me do it," Trowa commanded instead. "Both of you concentrate on knocking him out." Even universally restricted by his companions from using fire, the arsonist was a powerful magician that Trowa would like to see out of this picture. So he spoke a spell to render the man unconscious using the willing donation of power from his friends, put a decent amount of his own energy into it, and watched as the blue-hoodied man crumpled to the floor. 

Two of the arsonist's neighbors cried out in shock, and someone in their vicinity demanded, "He's never done anything to us, huh?" 

"He's just trying to get his boyfriend back!" This reply sounded less certain now that its speaker had seen one of her comrades fall dead for all she knew. 

"So? We're not some gay rights group!" 

"_We're_ trying to get _our power_ back!" 

This was such an absurdly magician-style conflict. Trowa had never been interested in the magical dueling he knew was popular in some circles, but this progressed very much along those lines -- the combatants standing still and hurling spells at each other in between more mundane verbal exchanges, distracted from the physical to the point that anyone could easily have ended it by the unthought-of tactic of walking up quietly behind Trowa and hitting him on the back of the head. 

Not that ending it thus was necessary now somebody on the opposing side had starting casting protective spells over their allies... because now there were two layers of magic between Trowa and the possibility of advancing. If he could just break through the barrier, though, he might not need to worry about the protective spells. It would be a gamble, since he would have to risk most or all of his personal power, and probably much of Heero's and Duo's, but it could be the finishing move he needed. The longer he let this go on, the greater risk he ran of someone finding some way to hurt him and his friends -- and the more of his own power was frittered away on something other than his main goal of forward motion. 

Yes, he thought, that was wisest: one great strike through the magical shield, preventing a new one's being erected, which would hopefully incapacitate at least the strongest of the Confrérie command magicians. Heero had agreed that even those not terribly fond of Trowa believed him to be incredibly strong yet, so such a move would function as proof of his power and a threat that would, he hoped, force them to back down -- as long as La Confrérie wasn't aware just how little energy he might have left afterward. 

Otherwise, Trowa didn't really see any way past these people; there were just too many of them willing to fight him, despite the arguments of his fans. If the latter would actually take a hand, things would be different, but obviously they didn't revere him enough to stand up to their own comrades for his sake. He supposed it only made sense. 

Running through and tweaking the words of the spell he proposed, gathering up his strength around him like a garment, he prepared to make what would surely be the decisive move in this conflict and hopefully end it in their favor. He glanced at his companions in turn, making sure they weren't in the middle of something else before he commanded, "Concentrate on helping me bring down this barrier."


	213. La Confrérie de la Lune Révéré Part 50

  


It was difficult to focus on any one thing in this maelstrom of voices and thoughts, but Heero had definitely been aware of Trowa drawing magical energy from him for one of his previous spells. Though he didn't entirely understand the mechanism, he'd definitely been conscious of the power flowing along a channel formed by his own willingness to donate it; therefore he could easily replicate that channel now. 

The tone in which Trowa had declared he was going to try to break the force field that stood between them and Quatre, not to mention the grim set of his jaw, indicated to Heero that this was an important move. Whether and to what extent it would work Heero had no idea, but he was busy formulating what they should try next in case it didn't. 

It seemed like fighting dirty, and should possibly be saved for a last resort, but it was obvious that if Trowa and Duo targeted the art on the shelves around them, La Confrérie would abandon whatever they were doing and jump to protect the stuff. The problem remained, of course, that there were so many more of the enemy than of Trowa and Duo; if they coordinated properly, they could probably fend off attacks on the art and _still_ hold the room. But it was an option if whatever Trowa was trying now didn't do what he intended. 

Trowa had barely opened his mouth to speak his spell, however, when he paused, closing his lips into a faint frown. Heero also felt whatever had halted him, and in some concern and curiosity turned his concentration toward figuring out what it was: some unfamiliar magical sensation, some newly begun influence originating he wasn't quite sure where. 

Bizarrely, Duo hadn't noticed it -- how had he not sensed it yet when the less experienced Heero had? -- and after a moment of silence he wondered, "Trowa?" If Trowa wasn't going to borrow power from him, after all, he was free to cast something himself. 

"Wait," Heero commanded. 

It felt as if something was moving silently through the room, perceptible far more in its results than in itself, affecting the spells being cast and already cast in a manner Heero could only describe as unraveling them from the inside out. Magic was gradually falling apart in a sort of wave, and a mental state that he recognized with some shock was spreading through the Confrérie members: a sort of vagueness, as if they were confused but didn't know it and probably didn't care. 

"Brainwashing," he said in almost a panic, looking around physically and reaching out mentally with a wild desire to find out who was doing it and how he could stop them. 

"Damn," said Trowa. 

And yet, Heero realized as the state progressed around them like a river encompassing a high, secure islet, they three didn't seem to be in danger. Were the unknown communicator's efforts really foiled by Trowa's protective spell? Had that person taken a chance and sent a wave of debilitating communicative magic throughout the room in the vain hope that it would affect Trowa and his friends as much as the communicator's allies? That seemed absurd, but also the only explanation for what was happening around them right now. 

Especially given that this magic was _stronger_ than it had been outside Trowa's burned house. The Confrérie members not only ceased their spellcasting, but sank to the bare warehouse floor with looks of dazed disinterest on their faces. Nearly everyone -- fans and detractors of Trowa alike -- seemed to be wilting, and one or two of them even sat down deliberately, leaned their heads against the shelves behind them, and closed their eyes. Those that resisted longest were those that Heero had already guessed to be La Confrérie's communicators -- confirming, if confirmation were needed, that this was communication magic. 

"What the hell is going on?" Duo demanded at a hiss. Trowa shook his head. 

Glancing back behind them, Heero found the fans that had followed them from the outer room now on the floor in slumped positions similar to those of everyone else, but his gaze didn't linger long there. For two people stood just within the great swinging doors, one of which the first stranger held open for the second, and, though Heero could read nothing from the mind of either, yet it seemed obvious both that the unknown magical influence came from them and that these were _not_ members of La Confrérie de la Lune Révéré. 

With an alerting noise, Heero jerked on Trowa's hand to get him to turn, and, after an awkward moment in which the three of them struggled to spin around without losing skin contact, they were all facing the newcomers. 

The latter both wore expensive-looking and well fitted black and white suits of the plainest design, and sunglasses, and after barely a moment Heero started again as he realized he'd seen one of them before: it was the man he'd observed across the street from Trowa's new house while helping with the move -- the one he'd thought at the time, not entirely facetiously, looked like an FBI agent. 

"And that was an excellent guess," said the other stranger, a woman, evidently not entirely facetiously herself. "We _do_ fit the stereotype, don't we?" 

"It's about the only stereotype we fit," the man remarked somewhat smugly, stepping forward alongside the woman and letting the door swing shut behind them. Though it was difficult to tell with those sunglasses, he appeared to be examining the Confrérie members scattered around, none of whom were left standing, as if to double-check that they really were all in a state to offer no further resistance. To a communicator this must be obvious from the abrupt drop in the level of mental noise in the room, but evidently this man wanted to be sure in detail. 

"Who the hell are you?" Duo demanded, more confused and curious than concerned. "What are you doing?" 

The woman, the slight sway to her hips somewhat at odds with her sensible shoes, kept to the man's side and seemed to be making the same examination he was. Her gaze appeared to linger (again, the sunglasses rendered surety difficult) on the arsonist that now lay, since Heero had turned, to his right -- the only Confrérie member already unconscious before the unexpected intervention. "The dear little Confrérie..." She had an almost mocking voice that sounded just one step away from laughter. "They've been incredibly noisy lately. Kidnapping and arson; really!" 

"How they thought they could compromise magical security so blatantly and get away with it, I have no idea." The man turned in a sweeping gesture from his scrutiny of the defeated and headed directly for the three in the center, stepping casually over fallen forms without so much (as far as Heero could tell) as a glance downward. He was, Heero noticed as the man drew closer, really quite startlingly large: well over six feet tall, exceptionally broad-shouldered, and thick with what was undoubtedly muscle. Though it was neither entirely relevant nor at all helpful under the circumstances, the thought did cross Heero's mind that it must be very difficult to find suits to fit that body shape. 

The next thing that crossed Heero's mind, even less relevant and helpful under the circumstances, made him start back a half step in surprise and chagrin: the specific image of the man buck-naked in what bodybuilders called a side chest pose, every shining bulge and chiseled crevice of his unbelievable musculature in high relief. 

"Must you do that?" the woman wondered with a roll of eyes toward her companion. 

"I'm offering the young man a clarification of reality," the other replied. "Besides, you can't claim not to enjoy it, Fox." 

While Heero wondered whether that was an _X-Files_ reference and whether these two really were secret agents of some sort, the big man had planted himself solidly before Trowa. "Good evening, Mr. Barton," he said, extending a large, strong-looking hand. When Trowa appeared reluctant to release those of his friends in order to shake, the man added imperiously, "If we had any intentions of influencing you magically, your low-powered protection spell would be meaningless." 

After a calculating glance, Trowa seemed to decide that this was true enough, for he freed his hands and shook that of the stranger. "Who are you?" he asked as he did so. 

"You may call me Thirteen," said the man. (Heero couldn't help noticing that the woman rolled her eyes again at this.) "But since you, unlike this foolish group here--" he gestured around at the out-of-commission Confrérie-- "have demonstrated over the last century that you seem to have some sense of propriety and subtlety about magic, you're of little concern to us." 

"And who's 'us?'" Duo wondered. "Are you guys government magicians, or what?" 

"That's classified," Thirteen replied, essentially (to Heero's mind) answering the question. Then he turned abruptly away, as if sweepingly declaring his business with them finished, and moved past like a mountain on wheels. "There are five more of them in the building, and it should only be a few more minutes before they're finished with their latest futile ritual spell." 

Trowa, shaking himself quickly as if a little stupefied by what had just happened and trying to break out of it, turned nearly as suddenly to follow the man. Duo looked back and forth between the two suited newcomers for a moment before, with a half-scowling-half-skeptical facial expression that very well reflected his mixture of curiosity and vexation, he jogged after Trowa. This left Heero, for a moment, more or less alone with the woman called Fox. 

She gave him a sympathetic smile and raised a finger to her lips as if what she was about to say was or could possibly remain a secret with at least three listening communicators in the room. "Thirteen--" she gave an amused emphasis to the name-- "takes a lot of things very seriously, including himself. All you really need to know is that we're here to deal with the Confrérie, and they won't bother any of you again. We'll see you safely off with Mr. Winner, and you can pretend we were never here." 

"You're not going to brainwash us into _believing_ you were never here?" Heero wondered dryly. Though all the details still weren't entirely clear, he thought he understood a _bit_ better, now, what had gone on outside Trowa's burned house. 

"Not if you don't force us to," Fox replied. Then she too moved past Heero and headed toward the back of the big room. 

He followed, intending for a moment to ask why, if they were so strong and yet so set on subtlety, they'd chosen their timing as they had, chosen to reveal themselves to Trowa and his friends at all; these agents could have swept in and incapacitated everyone ten minutes earlier, then temporarily stepped aside while Heero and Duo entered a building full of semi-conscious Confrérie members disinclined to resist as they, confused but pleased at the ease of their mission, made their way to Quatre and removed him from the premises. 

But Heero wondered this only for that moment before he was struck by what was probably the answer. These two were hiding in Trowa's shadow, masking themselves in his reputation. 

What 'deal with the Confrérie' entailed, exactly, he could not know, but if it involved no conscious or remembered contact between these agents and the members of that group, then this entire coup would be attributed to Trowa. By coinciding their attack with his, the agents had ensured that La Confrérie would recall only their crushing defeat by the great Trowa Barton -- and probably think nothing of the fact that they had awakened with a bizarrely altered attitude on the propriety and safety of carelessly flaunting their magic anywhere and everywhere, including in front of the non-magical populace. Trowa's prestige would be enhanced (whatever his feelings on _that_ might be), La Confrérie would be chastised without knowing it, and the very existence of whatever organization Fox and Thirteen worked for would not even be hinted at. 

As Heero stepped over Confrérie members and worked his way through these thoughts, the woman in front of him stopped suddenly and turned back, this time giving him a look of more profound assessment. It wasn't just a look, either: he could feel her in his head somehow, a dim, unreadable, professional presence that seemed to be rifling through aspects of him as she might shuffle through papers in a filing cabinet. He wanted to squirm under the scrutiny, but forced himself to hold still. 

Finally she gave a brusque nod. "You have a lot of raw talent. Keep developing it, and it may bring you job opportunities in the future." Then she turned again and kept walking. 

Heero shook himself just as Trowa had, and also continued in the same direction, trying futilely to decide which event of the last ten minutes had unsettled him most.


	214. La Confrérie de la Lune Révéré Part 51

"Still 100% failure, guys! Is there some magical record you're going for for the highest number of attempts at a spell without doing _one single damn thing right_?" 

The spellcasters had taken to ignoring Quatre completely when he started in on them, which meant his verbal attacks weren't nearly as relieving as on previous days... but he'd become so accustomed to doing it that he wasn't going to bother trying to stop himself. 

"We need to take Roussel out of the wording when Becotte's not around to concentrate on him," one of them was insisting, as he had several times already. "He's the only one who cares enough about Roussel personally for it to make a difference." 

"Mentioning Roussel is absolutely essential to a spell designed to manage the energy from _Roussel's artifact_," someone else said, the slight weariness of her tone a reflection of the fact that she too had made this argument several times already. 

"I don't even _have_ any magical abilities," Quatre put in derisively, "and _I_ could be less completely useless than you failures at this." 

"The energy itself wasn't Roussel's, though," the third remarked doubtfully. 

"Where did everyone go?" wondered the first. 

Quatre had been aware that something must be happening out in the parts of the building he wasn't really familiar with ever since the spectators and concentrators had quietly left the room in the middle of the ritual. At the time he hadn't said anything -- not only because he'd been warned very seriously about the dangers of interrupting a spell like this, but because the damn thing was painful and whatever he might have said would probably have come out as an inarticulate groaning snarl -- and he didn't feel like saying anything now because he honestly didn't give a crap what the obnoxious extraneous Confrérie members were up to. 

"Buh," said one of the people that remained in the room with him. 

"That sounded really stupid even for you guys." Quatre turned in his chair to glance at the source of the idiotic noise, giving as he did so a frustrated grunt of his own. The sensations of whatever the hell they did during their worthless rituals tended to linger for a few minutes, so it still felt as if his body was being pulled in several directions at once, threatening to tear apart, every time he moved. And that was only top of a headache that never had gone away. 

In growing curiosity and irritation, Quatre scowled as he observed not merely the person he'd been looking for but all three of the Confrérie members around him heading toward the floor: one sitting down deliberately, cross-legged, and leaning against a chalk-covered wall; one sinking to his knees so sluggishly it almost looked as if he'd somehow been cast into slow motion in real time; and the last simply toppling forward and face-planting onto the concrete, losing her glasses in the process, in a movement that looked extremely uncomfortable but for which Quatre had little room for pity at the moment. What was going on? 

And then a voice he knew extremely well said his name from the direction of the door. 

No. _No_. Trowa _could not_ be here now -- now, when Quatre had spent the last week deliberately getting into the habit of saying aloud every last nasty, irrational thing he could think of in order to work off some of his anger; now, to see the spirit-extinguishing depths of powerlessness Quatre had sunken to, the wretchedly different person he'd become; now, when the unhealed Quatre could not accept, could not allow anything he loved near him lest he ruin it forever. 

Remaining in his uncomfortable twisted position in his chair, unseeing eyes fixed on the collapsed Confrérie member behind it, Quatre took a deep, shuddering, stabbing breath. He wanted to look around and confirm Trowa's presence, because, little as he wanted Trowa here, he _wanted Trowa here_ with a desperate ferocity that stiffened his entire body and made his pressurized head throb. He wanted to run to him, cling to him and never let go... but he couldn't allow himself to try to take comfort in something that would only force him to admit how much he needed comfort, how completely out of his control was his situation. 

And what emerged around his clenched teeth was, "Why the hell are you here, Trowa?" 

The quiet reply, "To bring you home," came so immediately and earnestly that it erased any idea of wishful thinking or that Quatre might actually be collapsed like the spellcasters around him and dreaming that one of the things he wanted most in the world had come to pass. The word 'home' spoken in Trowa's voice seemed to lance into him and draw blood, and it must be impossible to deny how ardently he longed to go there with the man he loved. 

But what he said was, "You just decided that, did you? 'Time to pick Quatre up from daycare,' was it?" 

"Come home," said Trowa as quietly and seriously as before, "and we'll get this problem fixed." 

"Seems to me you've got plenty of problems of your own to worry about before you try to fix someone else's." Quatre still hadn't turned, and the twisting of his chest and stomach was becoming worse than the fading pain from the ritual. He wanted so much to look around, to see Trowa's face that he so missed, to seek solace there, but he just couldn't. "Why don't you work on that instead of trying to make my choices for me?" 

"We need to get you out of here." Did Trowa sound somewhat hurt? Trowa sounded somewhat hurt. Quatre had hurt him again, had done specifically what he'd come here to avoid doing. 

Squeezing his eyes shut against the irate tears burning them, Quatre shouted, "I didn't ask you to come here!" Except that he _had_ \-- every moment he'd been here, he'd been silently calling to Trowa with all of his angry heart. "It's not your responsibility to fix my problems!" Except that Quatre's own attempt at fixing his problems had failed so miserably; someone absolutely needed to intervene. "You need to mind your own damn business!" _Please don't leave me._ "Just get out of here!" _**Please** don't leave me!_

"We _won't_ leave you." It was Heero's voice, quieter than Trowa's, more horrified, but perhaps equally hurt. Was _everyone_ Quatre most cared about here to see him in his weakness, this supreme state of wretched, culpable, powerless rage and misery? 

"We're not going anywhere without you," Trowa agreed, and audibly took two firm steps into the room. 

Clearly set in motion by these familiar and beloved voices, something was building inside Quatre, perhaps toward a climax of sorts, as if all the anger and unhappiness was coming to a boil. He couldn't go much longer like this, having an exchange if not entirely rational at least composed of the usual back-and-forth of conversation. What would happen when this peaked he didn't know, didn't want to know, but it couldn't be much longer. 

Finally he turned, though his emotions didn't untwist along with his body, and took one single, brief look at his friends that had come so far to rescue him: at Trowa's solemn face, shocking in how much Quatre loved the sight of it after what felt like an eternity apart, and his slightly outstretched hand that offered reunion and comfort Quatre could not allow himself to accept; at Heero's stiff form in the doorway, features appalled and pitying; and, oh, was Duo here too? Quatre should have expected that. But the sight of him peeking around Heero with concerned and would-be-helpful eyes -- again, offering comfort Quatre simply _could not accept_ \-- was as infuriating as that of the other two. Burning with directionless fury, Quatre could feel the shrinking of the fuse that had been lit inside him. 

"They took my phone," he snapped, standing and moving forward so abruptly that he kicked the horrible old chair over and probably into the face of one of the Confrérie members behind. "I have to find it." And he pushed past his friends, avoiding a second look at any of them or even touching them lest the touch become a blow before he could stop it, into the hall. 

Though he'd momentarily escaped the ritual room and the people in and around it, he had not escaped and could not escape the turmoil inside himself. The heat was still rising, warping his vision and turning his steps into stumbles as he made his way toward the locked office where he believed his cell phone had been held hostage ever since he'd arrived in this terrible place. This maneuver had bought him time, but whether it would do any good in the long run he couldn't tell. 

The door opened under his hand -- whether because La Confrérie had left it unlocked or because of something Trowa had done, Quatre neither knew nor cared -- which was fortunate, since he would otherwise have kicked it or even thrown himself against it until it let him in. Now he knocked aside the chair he encountered and started ransacking the desk beyond half blindly, looking for something he was only partially certain was there. What he would do with his phone if he found it he wasn't sure; he just needed some pursuit that would turn his anger away from his friends and give him some time to try to get even the faintest hold on himself. 

It felt good to rip out the squeaky drawers, empty them onto the floor, then throw them across the room, and he thought there might be some hope of working off enough of his surface-level emotion that he could manage to articulate some thoughts that did not arise purely from a wrathful desire to strike and wound... even if the sight of everything in this desk that was _not_ the phone he was looking for took him another step back toward the anger and away from rationality. 

Though it was a couple of minutes before he discovered what he sought in nearly the last drawer, nobody accosted him and none of his friends had followed him into the room. Deeply relieved that they'd had the sense to see the intolerability of their presence at the moment, Quatre was simultaneously hurt and increasingly irate that they weren't bothering to help him, to continue insisting he come home with them, or to offer further comfort he couldn't possibly countenance. As he waited for his phone to turn on, bombarded by conflicting emotions and waiting in helpless tension to see whether or not he was going to be able to avoid the critical mass he'd already predicted, he listened to what he thought was shuffling and breathing just outside the door where he couldn't see. 

The phone's little startup jingle had been annoying, but nothing compared to what happened now the device had finished booting and located its signal. Had the evidently brainless designers really been able to think of no good reason for playing a _single_ text tone to indicate the presence of multiple unread messages? In the cacophony of text tone after text tone, continually overriding each after the first two notes, the voicemail sound (which _did_ only play once for multiple messages) was mostly lost, and the email icon appeared subtly at the top of the screen without any audible indication in the midst of the din. 

Increasingly agitated and headachy as he tried to wait this out, Quatre came gradually to hold the phone at arm's length in distaste for the jarringly repetitive sounds, and he felt his stomach clench as it struck him just how much of his life he'd missed lately. He'd transformed monstrously, hurt everyone he loved, run away to Louisiana to absolutely no benefit, and left everything behind in shambles. What was there to go home to besides a greater ordeal? 

When the aggravating chiming finally stopped, he found his hands trembling slightly as he dragged down the alert bar to see what he'd missed since dropping out of contact with his entire world. And when he was greeted with the information that he had 33 texts, 14 voice messages, and 27 emails, that was, somehow, the final straw, the catalyst needed to bring about the emotional apogee he'd been dreading. 

With a roaring sob he hurled his phone away from him in a motion like a hard tennis smash that resulted in a loud _crack_ against a wall, but he didn't see what had actually happened to the missile since his eyes had entirely clouded over with an upwelling of uncontrollable tears. Everything around him was hot chaos, anger, despair, throbbing pain, and voices crying out his name; it crashed over him like a tidal wave, tossing and battering and drowning his sprit. 

When he felt someone take hold of him, try to draw him into insistent arms as if for a consoling embrace, he fought back viciously, striking out against the nearby body with both fists. He _couldn't_; he _couldn't_; there was nothing of that in this hell; there was nothing left but rage and suffering. 

"I did tell you it would be better to let us knock him out too," said an unknown voice, sounding completely unperturbed, in the midst of the others calling out to Quatre. 

"I'm going to jump him home," replied another voice, very familiar and very close by. It slipped around behind him, evading his flailing blows and speaking in the magical language, as arms clamped decisively around his waist. Then a sudden disorienting weightlessness briefly paralyzed Quatre's lungs, so that when he next drew breath it was of different air in a distinctly different place.


	215. La Confrérie de la Lune Révéré Part 52

Everything had happened so quickly, event after event after unexpected event, magic and realizations in such rapid succession, that Heero, though he stood perfectly still on the sidewalk outside Galerie de la Lune with Duo equally motionless at his side, felt as if everything was transforming and rearranging, and his head was spinning. 

Cars passed behind him along Burgundy Street, and people occasionally walked by, their thoughts sometimes detectable. The world progressed in the warm, humid evening, but Heero was frozen for the moment. What might be going on inside the building he'd left, though he could speculate to some extent, he didn't know for certain and almost didn't want to think. He merely continued to stand still, hugging to himself the clothing he'd recognized as Quatre's and therefore confiscated in order to return to his friend when they got back home. 

Finally Duo took a deep breath and shook his head, sluggishly at first but vigorously after a moment as if awakening from a trance of stillness and indecision similar to Heero's. "I guess..." he said, but didn't finish the statement. 

Heero managed to rouse himself enough to agree, "Yeah." He looked down at the suit, shoes, and broken-faced cell phone in his arms, then back at Galerie de la Lune in front of him, and shook his own head. "Yeah, let's..." Then he and Duo turned simultaneously in the direction they'd originally come from, heading vaguely back toward the parking garage and their rental car. 

It was no surprise that Duo was the first of them to manage an entire sentence. "I guess Trowa doesn't have to worry about those weirdos anymore." 

Though he knew, from Duo's thoughts, the answer to his question, still Heero asked sardonically, "Which weirdos do you mean?" 

Duo chuckled darkly. "The Confrérie weirdos, not the secret agent brainwashing sunglasses weirdos." 

"Yeah, the secret agent brainwashing weirdos specifically said we won't have to worry about La Confrérie in the future." Again Heero shook his head. "And practically offered me a job." 

"What?!" 

"Apparently I have 'a lot of raw talent.' Someday I could be a sunglasses weirdo too, I guess." 

Duo was torn by multiple internal responses to this: he liked the mental image of Heero in sunglasses and a stark secret agent suit, but the idea in general weirded him out as well; by the mention of Heero's magical ability, he was reminded of things he wanted to discuss with his boyfriend and had been putting off, but he wasn't sure, even with Quatre safely jumped home, that it was a good time yet. 

Silently Heero sighed. Whether there would ever be a _good_ time he didn't know, but right now, with little more they could do for Quatre beyond worrying pointlessly, might be an _acceptable_ time. Even with Quatre's mental shouting, the first thoughts Heero had ever picked up from him, still echoing poignantly through his head and heart -- _Please don't leave me; **please** don't leave me!_ \-- it would be better to force himself not to concentrate on that when it could accomplish nothing. 

Trowa, after all, must be taking care of Quatre back home even as they walked, and Hajime was there at his house; things could progress now as they'd all been wishing. Heero could even hope that Quatre would be entirely returned to normal by the time he and Duo, after catching their scheduled flight tomorrow, saw him again. So this was probably as good a time as any for Duo to say everything he'd wanted to say -- at least everything he'd wanted to say to Heero -- ever since the plane ride here. 

"I think," Heero began slowly, "I will not be able to forgive myself in the future if I leave without getting something at a decent New Orleans restaurant." 

Duo looked at him sidelong, with little to no emotional response for the moment beyond some curiosity. "I _saw_ you looking up restaurants last night, and I wondered what you were doing. Can we afford that?" 

"We didn't spend any money to get here, remember? I may not have thousands of dollars, but I have enough for a dinner for two." He felt a little guilty about the proposed expenditure, after Quatre's parents had paid for plane tickets, a rental car, _and_ two hotel rooms (not anticipating that Trowa and Quatre wouldn't require one), but they _did_ need dinner _somewhere_ tonight. And that he would regret for the rest of his life (or at least until he managed to visit this city again) passing up an opportunity to sample New Orleans food had not been a lie. 

"I guess there's really nothing more we can do for Quatre right now," Duo said pensively. 

"Right," said Heero. With a deep breath he added, "And we can... talk." 

"You want to... talk... in public?" Duo made no effort to hide his surprise. 

"When you've been so thoughtful about waiting, not making you wait any more is the least I can do, I think." Still hugging Quatre's possessions to his chest, Heero watched the sidewalk in front of him instead of his boyfriend as they continued moving from the circle of one streetlight to the next. 

"I didn't want it to get in the way when we were doing more important stuff," Duo said a bit awkwardly. 

Heero's statement was no less awkward. "I don't know which was _more_ important, but it was still really nice of you to put it off." 

"And it's really nice of _you_ not to make me keep putting it off... but I might get kinda loud about this." 

"You always get kinda loud." 

"OK, then. I guess if you can handle that, let's find a restaurant and... talk." And as they kept walking, Duo was thinking very seriously and with greater concentration about everything he wanted to discuss. It was a chaotic set of reflections, and he wasn't really sure where to begin. After a few moments, Heero noticed that Duo wasn't sure _when_ to begin, either. Were they waiting until they actually reached a restaurant, or should he get going right away? 

"So talk," Heero urged. 

Question answered, Duo cleared his throat determinedly, fixing on his starting point. "I... I really can't believe you agreed with Trowa about not telling me he might have died. I couldn't believe Trowa didn't tell me that in the first place! Well, no, I could _totally_ believe Trowa didn't tell me that -- actually it was more of a surprise that he let it slip at all; it would have made sense if he'd _never_ told me, but I think he was scared Quatre was going to, and he felt like he'd rather be the one to say it, but still... the point is that the _news_ was a surprise, the fact that Trowa never told me _wasn't_, and then when you agreed, it _was_ again." 

The great benefit to having postponed this until a fairly long time after it had arisen was that Heero had been granted, at disparate moments, the opportunity to consider it and choose how to respond to some of what he knew Duo wanted to say. He wasn't always skilled at on-the-spot self-expression in heated discussions, so this had been a blessing. Now he was able to reply immediately, despite the publicity of the sidewalk and the difficulty he often had with these words, "I'm sorry I hurt you. Really sorry." 

Before Heero could proceed, however, Duo went on; it seemed he wanted to get all his thoughts on this particular point out into the open at once. "And I know you've been getting better with Trowa lately, and that's _great_. I can't even tell you how happy it makes me to see you guys being better friends; that's something I've wanted to see this whole time, like, ever since we all met. But then to hear you say something like that to him... it's like you took something that was exactly what I wanted all along and used it to stab me in the back." 

Heero found this dramatic wording a little hurtful, but wasn't going to say so; as he had this morning, he recognized now the baffled sense of betrayal in Duo's head, and understood why Duo would represent it in such strong language. He merely tried to explain. "You said I agreed with Trowa, and I can definitely see why that bothers you so much. But I didn't 'agree' with him. I told him I _understood_ why he didn't tell you, not that I agreed with him not telling you." 

Briefly Duo looked over without saying anything, then back to the street they were crossing. He could already see some of the distinction Heero was trying to make, but waited for Heero to elaborate. 

"I'm sure he couldn't stand to tell you something that might make you think you couldn't keep trying to become human." Heero lowered his voice, moving slightly closer to Duo, as someone passed them. It really was an effort to be talking about this in public. "He didn't want to ruin your chances, and since he wanted the curse to break so much that he didn't care what happened to _him_, he felt like it was a better idea not to tell you something that might make you call the whole thing off." Before Duo could offer the violent protest against this idea that was exploding in his head, Heero continued quickly: 

"And I wanted him to know I understood those feelings -- it wasn't exactly the same situation for me, of course, but I completely understood feeling like getting you human again was much more important than whatever _I_ was going through on the way, because that's what I _did_ feel like. But that doesn't mean I think he did the right thing, or that I would do the same thing in his shoes." Not that Heero, who had never suffered anything like what Trowa had suffered, could say _exactly_ what he would have done in Trowa's shoes, but to mention that would be straying from the point. 

Now Duo paused, his brain still in turmoil, before the entry into the parking garage they'd reached, and faced Heero with a frown. "That's... OK, I see your point... And the fact that you felt that way was... But, I mean, not telling me something like that..." 

"I think I understand your end of it too," Heero said quietly, bumping Duo's shoulder with his own in order to usher him onward into the greater darkness before them and out of the potential hearing of a nearby booth attendant. "Him not telling you that was taking a choice away from you, and you already had no control over your life because you were a doll." Finding uncomfortably that his voice echoed a bit inside the expansive garage, he lowered it yet again. "I don't think Trowa thought of it that way -- I think he just saw it as what was best for you and what he had to do to try to make up for cursing you in the first place -- but he really was kinda reinforcing the fact that you were a doll." 

"Yeah," Duo said, with more certainty and emphasis than his previous half sentences. "Yeah. It's not just that it's horrible to think about losing my best friend when I got something else I really, really wanted... it's this same thing it's been all along, of having other people controlling my life like they've been doing for so freaking long. And this time it _was_ my best friend, so I don't even know how much I can trust him anymore. And now..." 

Pausing, Duo scanned the line of cars they'd been walking along. "We parked about here, didn't we?" he muttered. "What the hell did our car look like...?" He was obviously avoiding glancing at Heero, seeking the rental car so avidly at this point, because he couldn't bear to discover, from Heero's face, whether his latest thought, at the tail-end of what he'd been saying, had been audible. 

It had. 

"And now," Heero echoed quietly, closing his eyes and drawing a deep, silent breath against the pain that had arisen in response to what he'd picked up from Duo's head, "you're not sure whether you can trust your boyfriend either."


	216. La Confrérie de la Lune Révéré Part 53

He'd hurt Heero. This conversation had been intended to work out and overcome _Duo's_ hurt feelings, not retaliate against Heero; that was the _last _thing Duo wanted. But somehow he'd managed to hurt him... and perhaps it had been inevitable. 

At the moment he was concentrating intensely on backing out of the parking space -- something still close to the bottom of his driving skills list -- and that endeavor probably kept the specific reflections he needed to voice sufficiently subdued that Heero couldn't hear them... but eventually he must continue. 

He was trying his hardest to put every little thought he had about all of this into words, because he felt better saying it aloud than being aware of Heero reading it from him without his having voiced it. It seemed more honest, and partook more of precisely what he wanted to express, to put everything on the table of his own free will than simply to know that Heero could see his hand whether he played it or not. 

"Turn left," Heero commanded as they approached the parking garage's exit. He didn't sound hurt or angry; in fact his tone was completely flat and emotionless, a sound Heero was particularly good at but generally didn't direct toward his boyfriend. 

Duo turned left. 

And eventually, forcing himself to get the damned explanation underway, he said, "The thing is, I know Trowa really cares about me, and I know _you_ really care about me, and you and him have some things about you that are pretty similar -- more than I ever really thought about before -- so when you said you understand why Trowa wouldn't tell me something like that -- even if you say you don't necessarily think he made the right choice not telling me -- I can't help thinking..." 

"Left again at the next intersection," Heero put in. 

"I can't help thinking, how do I _know_ you wouldn't keep something like that hidden from me? Hell, how do I know there's not something like that _already_ that you're not telling me? Like that after the curse broke, there was some kind of backlash on _you_ and now _you're_ cursed, but you think I don't need to know because it would ruin my happiness as a human or something? Or... it wouldn't even have to be magical... like, what if you had some awful disease that was going to kill you, and you weren't telling me because you thought I should have all the time I possibly could to... or, I don't even know." 

"Keep going for a while on this street." 

"Because, yeah, you did say you felt like he should have told me, and you even obviously completely get _why_ he should have told me, but that's just one situation... how do I know something else won't come up -- or already hasn't come up! -- where you _would_ agree with Trowa? Sometime when you _would_ feel like it's more important to try to 'do what's best for me' or whatever, try to keep me happy in the dark, than give me the choice and let me know?" 

Into the ensuing silence Heero said, "You're going to be turning left eventually." Then the silence resumed as Duo attempted to find an opening in the left lane. 

Finally, pensively, Heero spoke again, clearly aware that it was his turn but having taken this long trying to decide how to spend it. "So this really is a lot more about not trusting me than what Trowa said on the plane." 

"Yeah, I think this has been coming for a while..." Duo admitted with some regret. "What Trowa said just brought it out finally. I'm definitely going to have to talk to him about it, because he can't keep doing things like that, but..." 

"Go easy on him," Heero advised. "He's changed a lot since when he decided not to tell you, and he obviously realizes now that he should have, or he wouldn't have thought of it as a secret he was worried about Quatre giving away." 

"Yeah..." No matter how easy he went, though, that conversation was likely to be as difficult as this one. 

Another silence followed as Duo continued to sort out his thoughts and navigate the New Orleans streets in an unfamiliar vehicle, until Heero informed him, "Left at this light, and then you're going to have to park somewhere." 

Realizing what that meant, Duo groaned. "I have to parallel park on top of everything else?" 

"I have faith in you," said Heero quietly. 

Despite this declaration, the atmosphere in the car became even tenser than before as Duo went about the tricky and delicate task. Oddly, though, as he removed the key from the ignition, he was brought to laughter by the realization that it was possible to increase the agitation between them at the moment with something as frivolous as the difficulties of getting a car into a properly square position in relation to the curb and the other nearby cars. This conversation wasn't exactly _fun_, but evidently it also wasn't as horrific as he'd been thinking it must be. 

Heero smiled a little, undoubtedly in response to this idea, as they disembarked, and it gave Duo courage to continue. Because, when it came down to it, the problem arose not so much (if at all) from Heero's behavior as from the very power he'd just demonstrated. It wasn't something he'd done wrong; Duo was not accusing him. 

"Yeah," Duo said on the way toward the restaurant door, at which he barely looked, resuming the conversation from the point his thoughts rather than his words had left off, "it's stupid. Just because you can read my mind -- and not even all of it! just _some_ of my mind! -- that shouldn't make it harder for _me_ to trust _you_; it shouldn't have anything to do with that!" 

Though the interesting smells inside the restaurant did distract him slightly, only the fact that an employee was talking to Heero prevented Duo from continuing immediately. This was probably for the best, since it gave him time to decide how to articulate the rest of his reflections before they were walking to and eventually seated at a table somewhere. 

"People who don't have magic and can't see into each other's heads have to trust each other based on things they've gotten to know about each other and things they've seen each other do." Perhaps it was a bit of a shame, but later he wouldn't be able to describe this place: not the decorations nor how big their table was nor how many people besides themselves were here nor even the name of the restaurant. The smell might linger, but nothing more, so wrapped up was he in this other matter. 

"I mean, you get to know someone, and you have this pattern recognition that tells you, 'He wouldn't do such-and-such,' right? But there's always some, I think, sort of _blindness_ to it too -- because, even if you logically think, based on all this stuff you've seen, 'He would never do that,' you can't really _know_. But you believe it anyway. It's a sort of... faith thing, I guess." 

Heero, who had pulled his chair close to Duo's, nodded his understanding. 

"And I think that's good for people. It's a human thing, having to trust blindly, and I think it brings us closer together, especially whenever we get some evidence that we were right. And that's where I am: having to trust you in this totally normal, human way, which is absolutely fine... except that then all of a sudden you get an advantage. _You_ can see into _my_ head when _I_ can't see into _yours_, so suddenly the way you trust me is totally different from the way I trust you. You've got a sort of... head start..." He laughed briefly and somewhat bitterly at the unintended pun. "You're on a different level. It's... it's not fair anymore." 

Once again he had to shut up for a minute while a waiter talked to Heero -- was that quick service? were they ordering drinks and food at the same time? did Heero just order for him, knowing full well that Duo hadn't looked at the menu and couldn't concentrate on it long enough to make a rational selection? -- and once again, during this period, he examined and amended what he was and would be saying. 

He regretted sounding as if he considered human interaction and trust some sort of contest, some sort of fight or race in which things like 'advantage' and 'head start' came into play; but inequality could make a difference in any field. Maybe it _shouldn't_, but simply saying that something shouldn't change things didn't mean it didn't change things. 

"And it _really_ shouldn't," he went on when they were alone again. "I'm still in exactly the same place, in that normal situation, and it shouldn't make a difference that you're not. How you trust me shouldn't make any difference to how or if I trust you, but it _does_, for some reason. I kinda feel like I'm on the defensive, somehow, because you can look into my head, and then it makes it harder for me to trust you, even though I don't have any real reason _not_ to trust you and a million good reasons _to_ trust you." 

This was about the extent of it, though Duo felt some annoyance when he considered that Heero probably understood his point better because of what he'd read from his head than because of how Duo had worded it. But at least it was all shared between them now, one way or another. 

They sat silently for some time, Heero gazing down at the table with a pensive half frown and Duo staring at Heero. He wasn't even demanding a response, willing him to say anything, because it wasn't as if Duo had made some allegation Heero needed to refute; it was just that he couldn't look away. 

Finally, slowly, Heero said, "I don't know what to say." 

"I'm sorry," Duo offered, perhaps belatedly. Probably belatedly. "It's not your fault you're a communicator and I'm taking it weird." 

Heero smiled faintly. "I wish there was something I could do to prove..." He shook his head. "But I guess that might not actually help." 

Silence recommenced, and Duo continued to watch his boyfriend in frustration. This whole thing shouldn't really be a problem, and he was annoyed that it had become one. After all the time he'd spent with Heero, after everything he knew of him -- that logical trust he'd built up over the months -- for something like this to hit them now, in the middle of other concerns...! 

If he ever again had one of these shrimp sandwich things, he would surely associate its scent and flavor and texture with the memory he was reliving tonight as he ate at least part of one almost without noticing it: a memory of Heero, back in July or so, making a half-facetious verbal list of apology for every instance he could remember (some of them very insignificant indeed) of having taken advantage of Duo's doll helplessness. As Heero had demonstrated this very evening, he really _did _understand -- and seem to regret -- how little control Duo had had over his own life because of the long curse. 

Heero also opened up to Duo much more completely than he did to anyone else. Duo recalled the time, shortly after his first meeting with Heero's parents, when he'd asked whether Heero now considered himself more out of the closet than he had before; and Heero had explained with obvious embarrassment or even shame, but little to no reluctance, that he wouldn't feel properly out of the closet until he managed a more active part in the gay community and the struggle for equal rights, a struggle he hesitated to join in any manner more involved than his voting because of the uncomfortable publicity he perceived as being necessary thereto. 

Heero _didn't_ hide things from Duo, and he _did_ understand Duo's need for autonomy. As Duo had said, there were a million reasons to trust Heero, and the awareness of them should be something Duo could cling to even through the doubts that had arisen because of his reaction to Heero's communicative magic. It formed a _sort_ of trust that, he discovered now, he still had in Heero despite his questioning. 

This was a bittersweet realization, because, although it _was_ a comfortable and reassuring place to return to, it was a place he never should have left -- even if that trust was yet imperfect. Not only that, but if he was just going to come back around to this spot after his little jaunt through uncertainty, why had it been necessary to drag Heero through that with him and hurt him in so doing? 

Well, he'd probably had to hash the thing out _with_ Heero (out at least aloud in his presence) in order to get it resolved in the first place, so it had probably been, as he'd feared earlier, inevitable. Some things didn't come naturally, after all; they had to be worked for, with their attendant discomfort and inconvenience. That was as part of being human as learning to trust in adverse circumstances, he supposed. 

"You know what _might_ help?" Heero said pensively, surely having picked up on everything that had gone through Duo's head but letting it go without comment. "Hajime said that even non-communicators can learn not to project what they're thinking. If you train so I can't hear you anymore, except when you want me to, you might feel better about this thing I can do." After a moment he added, with some of the same awkwardness that had colored several of his statements since they'd left Galerie de la Lune, "I don't want to make it sound like this is a problem it's _your_ responsibility to solve or anything, but... that still might help." 

Despite things having been less resolved than postponed, Duo hastened to agree with this excellent idea. Heero was so considerate; he might not excel at this type of discussion, and he might occasionally have a hard time opening up, but he _tried_... he always displayed a genuine desire to work through problems when they arose, and he seemed so good at recognizing various sides of a situation like this. 

And all of a sudden, as if this had been a much more definitive resolution than was actually the case, Duo felt he was, for the moment, very done with the entire thing, that putting off was exactly good enough for now. "I'm really freaking tired," he announced, setting down with finality whatever he was eating. 

"You've been through a lot today," Heero agreed, displaying no lingering hurt or worry or anything more than quiet sympathy -- whether because he really was that calm about this or because he also was satisfied to postpone for now, his companion was too weary to guess. He put his napkin on the table next to his own only half-finished meal. "Let's go find our hotel and get some rest. We can eat these leftovers for breakfast, if there's a fridge in our room, and then we can get home and find out how Quatre and Trowa are doing."


	217. La Confrérie de la Lune Révéré Part 54

Trowa's right cheekbone ached, and he wouldn't be surprised to find more than one bruise already growing where Quatre had hit him without appearing to be aware of it, but the tears slipping down his face were, he thought, only caused in small part by the pulsing pain. His heart, in the metaphysical sense, hurt far more than his body ever could, and he was tempted to say he'd found a new superlative. 

It had taken some time for Quatre to calm -- how much time, exactly, Trowa hadn't measured -- and this largely empty house had proven an optimal environment for directionless rage. There was very little to damage here, beyond Trowa himself, and Quatre's frenzy had eventually burned out with no real destruction done. Now he sat sobbing in Trowa's arms, pressed painfully against the tender spots he'd caused on Trowa's chest and shoulders, shuddering and tense but growing quieter and more coherent by the moment. 

Having found that comforting words of any kind, for some reason, had an effect precisely the opposite of the one intended, Trowa had said nothing for quite a while. When they'd first arrived, he'd immediately shouted Hajime down from the guest room and ordered him to get his partner over here as soon as possible. Then he'd made a few attempts at soothing Quatre, but, having discovered the aforementioned contradictory result of such efforts, had ceased and merely concentrated on keeping him from hurting himself. Eventually they'd settled onto the sofa, though the protective sheet had been torn from it and smoke from the stained upholstery was undoubtedly now transferring onto their clothes. Given the odd and poorly matched outfit Quatre currently wore, he probably wouldn't care; Trowa certainly didn't. 

The living room had been bathed in afternoon light at their first appearance, and the fading of this into sunset dimness and then more serious darkness in which he never bothered to step away from Quatre to turn on anything electric had been Trowa's only indication of the passage of hours. As Quatre first railed inarticulately against the entire world, then huddled pathetically against Trowa, suffering a mixture of unpleasant emotions that had taken him over and with which Trowa, for as deeply as he sympathized, couldn't even empathize, it felt as if an eternity was passing; but a more coherent estimate suggested it was around 7:00 when Hajime entered the room to inform him that Sano, though he'd managed to escape the rest of his work shift for the evening, couldn't get his car to start, and would have to be picked up and brought here. 

A bleak, painful, surreal stretch of evening ensued, characterized by Quatre's tears and Trowa's heartache on his behalf, its length probably exaggerated by the helplessness and misery of its participants. How long it was before the exorcists returned, therefore, Trowa couldn't guess and didn't really care. He was so lost in his concentration on Quatre, in fact, that he didn't even _notice_ until the lights in the living room blazed on, piercing the strange grey bubble of unhappiness that had built up around the two men on the couch. 

Quatre, who had fallen completely silent and gone mostly still, started and made a noise like a sob that was as irritated as it was sad, but he didn't look from where all he could see, assuming his eyes were open, must be Trowa's shirt, and he said no word. But Trowa glanced up at Hajime and Sano standing in the space where this room transitioned into the next. 

The younger of the two exorcists appeared to be discernibly abashed and trying not to show it. The last time he'd been in this house, after all, he'd rendered its owner extremely uncomfortable and unhappy with a private conversation he hadn't done much to keep private, and he probably wasn't terribly optimistic about what Trowa's opinion of him must be at this point. 

The truth was that Trowa cared not the littlest bit about that right now; Sano was here to help Quatre, and any past indiscretions were entirely forgotten in light of that. And to convey this idea Trowa said quietly and very sincerely, "Thank you so much for coming. I'm sorry if it was inconvenient for you." 

Evidently, somehow, Quatre was aware of who was present and why, for he added to this, in a harsh, angry, desperate whisper into Trowa's shoulder, "This had damn well better work." 

"Yeah, of course," Sano replied, with some evident sympathy, as he and Hajime advanced. He seemed to relax a little from his concern about what Trowa might think of or have to say to him as he turned his attention to the miserable-looking Quatre. "We'll get this done." To the man at he side he muttered, "You were right -- that's a shit-ton of energy." He frowned a bit, pensive, as he came to a halt in front of the sofa, and added, "Yeah, I think... yeah, you were right about how we oughta do this." 

Hajime nodded, and, turning to Trowa, explained, "It's best if we do this in batches, so Sano doesn't have to absorb too much at once." He reached out toward his partner's arm in a motion that, though restrained, struck Trowa as far less professional than his tone: it was an almost protective or even possessive movement; in fact it was the most personable and least self-contained gesture Trowa had ever seen him make, and for a brief moment cast him in an entirely and unexpectedly different light. By indicating that Hajime had some strong and deeply felt reason to want Sano not to have to absorb too much angry energy at once, it entirely negated any protest Trowa might have been inclined to make at the idea of not getting this done all in one go. So Trowa merely nodded. 

"If you don't mind Sano staying here with me tonight," Hajime continued, "we'll do a second round first thing in the morning after everyone has some rest." 

Choosing to trust that the exorcist knew what was best in this situation, Trowa nodded again. 

Sano, meanwhile, had been studying Quatre intensely, worrying at one of the rings in his lowered eyebrows with a single finger in an absent gesture of pensive consideration. Finally he grinned darkly, as if in anticipation of a challenge, and squeezed a fist with his other hand. "All right, let's do this." And, finished with the noisy cracking of his knuckles, he reached out for one of Quatre's slightly trembling shoulders. 

Quatre started at the touch, letting out an angry breath, but did not otherwise move or say a word; he didn't seem to want to face or deal with this situation in any way. Trowa fervently hoped that, in a few minutes, he would be at least a little easier and less miserable. 

With a deep breath and closing his eyes, Sano, in a nearly complete and very tense silence, began the absorption that was his method of exorcism -- and, despite the agitation of the scene and everything unrelated Trowa had been and still was feeling, he couldn't help watching in great and growing interest. 

The energy streaming off Quatre didn't change, since the fact that it was emerging from him visibly meant it was already expended and dissipating into the air, but other energy was palpably moving from him in a different direction. What fascinated Trowa most about the process was that this energy became less and less discernible as it traveled from Quatre to Sano, until by the time it actually entered Sano's being Trowa could no longer detect it at all. 

Presumably this was because it was a two-part mixture of magical energy and death or shade energy, and only the latter component, which the non-necrovisual Trowa could not see, was actually transferring; the rest of it, the pure magic that Trowa could feel, was being stripped from the rest in a process like the chemical division of molecules into component atoms, and was crackling in the air in little continual bursts of power between Quatre and Sano. 

Stripping one type of energy away from the other, pulling one into himself and letting the other explode in the air in front of him, must have constituted a serious struggle for Sano, and Trowa greatly admired his ability to do it so smoothly -- especially since he'd probably never had to absorb quite like this before. His frame was stiffening as he continued, his free hand slowly clenching into a fist and his facial expression turning gradually to a grimace. Conversely, Quatre was relaxing a bit, his breathing becoming less angry and rough and his grip on Trowa less painfully tight. 

Eventually Hajime reached a hand out toward Sano's free arm in another surprisingly invested human motion, murmuring as he did so, "Enough." 

Sano jerked away from the touch and took no heed of the admonition, continuing to draw power from Quatre with, though his eyes remained closed, an increasingly angry and determined look on his face. 

Hajime rolled his own eyes and this time took Sano's arm in a grasp that presumably could not be ignored. "_Enough_, idiot." And he pulled at him hard enough to rock Sano's entire body. "Are you trying to kill yourself?" 

With startling suddenness, Sano discontinued his absorption, let go of Quatre's shoulder and, wrenching his arm free, whirled with a clenched fist aimed at the other man's face. Hajime, who had clearly been expecting this, dodged the blow and, taking hold of Sano's shoulders with both hands, jerked him entirely away from the sofa. 

Trowa watched in open-mouthed astonishment as Sano stumbled on the steps up out of the sunken living room area, caught himself, spun, and went at Hajime again, managing to land a hit on his shoulder even as Hajime simultaneously punched him squarely in the cheek with an agitating cracking sound. Sano reeled backward one step, making an angry noise, and threw himself forward once more. 

This was so unexpected that Trowa had no idea what make of it. He couldn't say he was surprised that Hajime, who seemed to enjoy startling people and then smirking at their reactions, hadn't bothered to warn him that this would be a part of the exorcism process... and honestly the empty living room and front room where there was no furniture to dodge or worry about damaging was as perfect a venue for a fist fight aimed at working off the anger Sano had just absorbed as it had been for Quatre's somewhat similar demonstration of that anger when they'd first arrived... but this violence still came completely out of nowhere, and Trowa had no idea what to say or do. 

It wasn't necessary for him to say or do anything about it, however, since just then Quatre whispered his name and tore his attention away so thoroughly that it didn't really matter. 

"Quatre," he replied, losing track of the bizarre scene in front of him and tightening his grip around Quatre's back. He found the blue eyes suddenly turned up toward him so abruptly, so poignantly clearer and more present, more _Quatre_, than they'd been since the reunion in New Orleans, or perhaps than they'd been since the beginning of this mess, that he suddenly couldn't breathe for relief. 

"Trowa, it... That _worked_..." The tears in Quatre's eyes didn't alter their increased clarity, the striking diminishment of rage in his overall expression and demeanor. "I feel... _so_ much better... still angry, but..." 

Squeezing out sudden new tears of his own in gratitude and overwhelming happiness, Trowa pressed his lips to Quatre's forehead, pulling him tight against him. He could hardly bear to draw back far enough to reply, in as trembling a whisper as Quatre had used, "You'll feel even better in the morning. They're going to get rid of the rest of it too." 

Quatre made a whimpering noise, clutching in return, seeming to be experiencing much the same emotions as Trowa was -- with the addition, of course, of the anger that still remained and that was probably still powerful. Trowa pulled him to his feet and, keeping his arms tight around him, spoke a spell that would jump them upstairs to his bedroom. Despite the distance being so short, he didn't want to try to walk past the fist-fight going on between them and their destination; that could work itself out without them, and Hajime and Sano, in whatever condition of bruises and exhaustion, could go to bed in the guest room without input from the others in the house. 

And what Quatre's ability to sleep in his current emotional state might be, Trowa had no idea; but at the very least he seemed willing and able now to accept comfort. Trowa himself was mightily strengthened by the vast improvement to his lover's temper, and ready to do whatever was necessary to help Quatre get through the night. One way or another, looking forward to further improvement tomorrow, they could survive until morning.


	218. La Confrérie de la Lune Révéré Part 55

That Quatre had managed any sleep at all astonished and provoked him -- astonished because he'd been so agitated the night before that sleep had seemed impossible; provoked because this wasn't the time for it, because sleep was such a waste right now. Lying around unconscious for several hours contributed exactly nothing to any solution to his problem. 

There had been some mention, yesterday evening, of drawing the energy out of him in batches, but Quatre didn't remember hearing any convincing reason given for this plan, and it was extremely frustrating to find himself so angry so soon after the first session. Still, his attempts at not allowing that anger to be too pointedly directed at those around him -- at the exorcists, one of whom Quatre knew not at all, or at Trowa, with whom Quatre had no reason whatsoever to be angry -- were much more successful than any such efforts had previously been. It was easy enough simply to be angry with himself. God knew he had plenty of reasons to be. 

The room in which he had spent the night was as new to him as the one to which Trowa had brought him from the Confrérie headquarters yesterday, but the presence of an air mattress beneath him and a blanket he recognized as having come off Heero's guest bed atop him allowed him to make a guess as to where he was. And the ire aroused by the thought of Trowa's having gone ahead and replaced his home in Quatre's absence and completely without his input was also easy to rechannel toward himself; after all, Quatre was the one that had been unpleasant, unfeeling, and unavailable when Trowa needed a new house. 

In addition to the trembling heat of anger, Quatre felt his eyes prickling as he looked around at the empty room, pale in the light of early morning through bare windows, to Trowa's back turned toward him nearby beneath the blanket. He should be happy to find Trowa at his side, so close he could feel his warmth, but if he felt happiness ever again he would be just as astonished as he had been, upon awakening, to find that he'd slept. Abruptly he sat up and scrambled off the air mattress, turning away from the sight of his boyfriend before it entirely broke him. 

He still wore the horrible clothing he'd been given by the cheap and tasteless Confrérie people, and the sight of it brought his rage right back up to something like its usual level. _Why_ was he wearing this? Wasn't there _anything_ else here he could have changed into last night -- or couldn't he just have gone to sleep without clothing? Hadn't Trowa considered the effect it would have on him to wake up in this outfit? 

That was unfair, and again Quatre found it not too terribly difficult to bend the aggression around toward himself, where it was more appropriate, away from the innocent Trowa. His condition had definitely improved; he was capable of facing things much more rationally, and in fact capable of recognizing the irrationality that had gripped him for so long... but the fact that this was only relative, that he was _still_ mad, _still_ irrational, despite the improvement, actually increased his anger and made him long for something to strike out at. 

"Quatre," came Trowa's voice from behind him, and it was like an echo of yesterday: it stabbed into Quatre with its beautiful familiar sound and its clear concern and pity, stirring in him all the desire he felt to be with Trowa, to allow Trowa to help and comfort him, and the contradictory desire he felt _not_ to be with Trowa since he knew he would only hurt him with his behavior. Just like yesterday in the Confrérie basement ritual room, Quatre did not turn. And this time he said nothing; it was much easier to control himself today, now that he'd been brought back some distance out of the abyss of overwhelming fury. 

The rustling of the blanket and the sound of the mattress shifting indicated that Trowa too had risen from the 'bed,' and a moment later arms slipped around him from behind. A slight hesitance to the movement immediately raised some annoyance in Quatre, but that emotion was tempered as he realized that this reluctance seemed based on uncertainty about Quatre's possible reaction in this frame of mind rather than the old uncertainty about the entire world and inability to take initiative that had always bothered Quatre about Trowa. Something had changed, and trying to analyze it was an unexpected distraction. 

"How are you feeling?" Trowa murmured. 

Whether thanks to the aforementioned distraction or because of the general improvement to his condition since last night, Quatre managed to restrain himself both from shrugging out of Trowa's arms and from retorting with something to the purpose of, _"How the hell do you **think** I'm feeling?"_ The answer he did give, "Better, but not good," was short and unfriendly enough. 

"Should we see if those two are ready to help you again? Or would you rather find some breakfast first?" 

Now Quatre did pull away from Trowa's embrace. The thoughtfulness and practicality of the offer were too much at the moment, and only increased the snappishness of his reply, "Let's just get it over with." 

As Trowa moved wordlessly past, he placed a hand on Quatre's shoulder again briefly, squeezing, as if in acknowledgment of Quatre's wishes, spoken and unspoken, and the gesture's surety was another blow to what little composure Quatre had. He turned sharply so as to continue not looking at his boyfriend as the latter left the room, but he yet listened to the ensuing footsteps and the knock on a door not far off. Then there was a low conversation he couldn't quite make out, the unknown door closed again, and the steps returned. 

"Come downstairs," Trowa said. "They'll join us in a few minutes." 

With a nod, Quatre finally, reluctantly turned. Then his breath caught and his throat constricted painfully as he saw Trowa's face for the first time today. For, although his memories of certain parts of yesterday evening were uncertain and difficult to summon, he knew without any doubt that _he_ had occasioned those bruises. The sensation of solid resistance against his flailing fists flashed across his recollection with sudden, heart-rending clarity. He had actually struck his boyfriend, had offered physical violence against someone he loved. How Trowa could even bear to look at him at this point he had no idea. 

With a growling sob of despair and self-loathing, Quatre ran past Trowa out of the room. He didn't know where he was going, but 'downstairs' had been mentioned, so he descended, barely conscious of the rapid thumping of his heels on the unfamiliar steps. And as he moved into an echoing, high-ceilinged space, he felt he recognized the place somewhat. When he looked to his left into a lower room, in the far corner of which he could make out faintly, through his tears, the familiar colors of Trowa's old sofa, he knew that this was where they'd sat last night. 

Slowing his steps and wiping fiercely at his eyes with the back of one hand, Quatre made his way over there and, having no other evident option, seated himself. He couldn't run away again; now that he knew with certainty that the techniques being used here were positively effective, he had to stay, had to get this condition eradicated. After that... after that, he didn't know what. Maybe then he could run away again. 

When he observed Trowa coming toward him, he swiveled with a gasp where he sat, forcefully, miserably directing his gaze toward the wall. And when Trowa sat down beside him, both of Quatre's hands flew to his face, clutching angrily to block his view of anything that would only make the situation worse. Then the two men waited for a few minutes in silence but for Quatre's ragged, unhappy breaths that echoed loudly off the palms in front of his nose and mouth. 

The sound of a couple of voices, one Quatre somewhat recognized and one he knew only from last night, conversing as they came down the stairs and this direction, caused him to lower his hands but not to look around. He stared now at his knees, bared by the awful shorts he wore, and the floor he could see beyond them, and presently there moved into that space a pair of big bare feet. The less familiar of the two voices, deep and easy-going, said, "You're looking better already." 

Grudgingly Quatre raised his eyes, up a pair of worn slacks, past a red polo with the words _Imperial Panda II_ beside an embroidered representation of the appropriate animal, to a youngish face decorated with a number of piercings as well as bruises beneath spiky hair that looked like it had been slept on while the gel was still in. And while Quatre couldn't help frowning at the absurd and juvenile overall picture, he did manage to restrain his scornful comment. Saying anything else in its place was beyond his power, but his attempt at a nod was successful. 

"Well, let's get some more out," the young man suggested, raising a hand. Bruises dotted his arm in addition to his face, but Quatre was almost certain _he_ hadn't been the cause of these. He swallowed and nodded again. 

Today he was in a better frame of mind to pay attention to the process and exactly how it felt. In contrast to the completely ineffectual rituals of La Confrérie, this apparently rather simplistic but perfectly sound technique was strange and uncomfortable, but did not hurt; he might have compared it to having bits of shrapnel magnetically extracted from his flesh if he could have imagined that process without the pain that must have been involved. It was agitating, though, and he felt increasingly tense as minutes passed and the expression on the young man's face in front of him contracted into a scowl. 

And at the same time, he could feel his own anger steadily decreasing. The stupid eyebrow and nose rings were irritating him less with each passing moment, and wondering why this couldn't have been accomplished all at once last night was causing less annoyance each time his mind came back around to it. 

That question was eventually answered in any case. The first exorcist, Hajime -- whom Quatre had not yet seen, though he knew he was present -- eventually took an abrupt step forward into Quatre's line of vision and put his hands on the other's arms in a firm grip. "That's enough for now," he said, evidently exerting some physical force. 

The young man's expression turned from anger in reserve to anger in full earnest, and as he wrenched backward, away from Quatre, and spun to face Hajime, he snarled out something that, though largely inarticulate, sounded a bit like, "You always fucking think you need to tell me what to do." 

"Because you're too much of an idiot to--" Hajime had to abandon this reply in favor of dodging a punch that came flying at him evidently with all of the young man's weight behind it. 

Startled and appalled, Quatre stared as an all-out fist fight, complete with ducking, weaving, and loud, serious blows to body and face, began to range across this mostly empty room. It didn't take much to interpret the reasons behind it, either: the younger exorcist had pulled so much angry energy out of Quatre and into himself that he was willing to attack his partner at the drop of half an insult, and this fight was what it took to work it off. In other words, the bruises the young man already wore -- undoubtedly from last night's batch of energy -- really _had_ been caused by Quatre, if only indirectly. 

And his own anger still wasn't entirely gone. Though the drawing-off of energy had, like last night, made that discernible difference to his attitude, the sight of the aftermath was dragging him back into rage and despair. It was as if all the blood had been cleaned from the surface of an oozing wound, only for more to well gradually up from within to take its place. He'd abused all of his friends, most especially Trowa, and put them to massive inconvenience; he'd forced a wretched state of mind and a violent, painful confrontation on the exorcist that was trying to help him; and his own anger was _still coming back_. Was there no escape from what he was, from the evils he had committed? 

In a motion so forceful it seemed to mimic the hits going on out there in front of him, he once again buried his face in his hands, and once again found himself succumbing to anguished, angry tears.


	219. La Confrérie de la Lune Révéré Part 56

  


No verbal indication of Quatre's thoughts was necessary for Trowa to understand or at least put a name to them. Hadn't he, after all, spent the better part of the last hundred years hating himself for something he'd once done? Even if his guilt had arisen in consequence of actual misbehavior, whereas the innocent Quatre's was entirely misplaced, that didn't make the mental state less recognizable or less in need of repair. 

Not long ago, Trowa's initial response to a situation like this would have been to withdraw in silence, to remove his obtrusive presence and allow the sufferer to recover in solitude in his own good time -- and even now, this was somewhat his first instinct. But there was little or no inclination left to obey that lingering impulse. It would be unthinkable here and now. 

Moving slowly, trying not to startle his lover, he slid over to Quatre and put his arms around him. Despite Trowa's best efforts, Quatre stiffened and made a harsh noise of discontentment, but did not resist the proximity or the contact. In fact he leaned closer, as he had last night, and continued his lamenting against Trowa's chest. 

"This isn't your fault," Trowa told him. "You haven't done anything wrong." 

Surprisingly, Quatre's sounds of unhappiness transformed into laughter. It was bitter, rough, and brief, but it definitely acknowledged some absurdity. "I guess," he said brokenly, his faltering voice muffled by Trowa's chest, "compared to what you feel like you did wrong, everything I've done lately wouldn't seem like much." 

"You didn't turn anyone into a doll for eighty-seven years," Trowa agreed. "But I can't think very badly of anything else you've done, either." 

"Trowa!" Quatre sat up and cast almost accusingly skeptical tear-reddened eyes on him, but quickly removed them from Trowa's face as his expression melted into one of misery again. "I _hit_ you, hard enough for it to bruise already! I made you guys go all the way to Louisiana trying to find me, and I don't even know how you got there... I've forced these two--" he gestured to where the altercation between Hajime and Sano had ranged into the front room-- "to fight, to _actually fight_ each other... I've said all sorts of unforgivable things to my best friends, including you, and poor Heero... I've made life miserable for my family and everyone at home _and_ at work -- oh, god, those performance reviews! I've been actively hurting everyone for weeks... how can you possibly say you don't think badly of all of that?!" 

"It... hasn't been pleasant," Trowa admitted, deliberately understating with greater smoothness than he'd expected of himself. "But none of that was actually your fault." 

Now Quatre faced him, looking indignant, and Trowa had to remind himself that the exorcism wasn't complete; Quatre still had energy remaining, and therefore must still be angered by things that would not otherwise have upset him. It was entirely possible that nothing Trowa could say right now would make a lasting impression, but the conversation was happening right now, so he would say what he needed to say right now. 

"You think I haven't been making my own choices?" demanded Quatre. "That I haven't been under my own control or something?" 

"I do. You've been in an altered state of mind. All those unpleasant things you mentioned -- you're not responsible for them." To prevent any protest, Trowa daringly raised his voice and insisted, "This magical energy you've internalized has caused you to behave in ways you never normally would. You couldn't get rid of it yourself, and you couldn't fight it, so it's _not your fault_." 

As Quatre stared, a tear followed a shining pre-established track down his face and fell off his chin where his jaw was working soundlessly as if all words had been snatched from him. He acted almost as if he were recoiling from a blow, but, from his expression, that blow had been more startling than upsetting. Trowa's point seemed to have taken him somewhat by surprise -- or at least that he'd made it, and spoken so loudly and assertively to make it, if not necessarily the idea itself -- and Quatre didn't know if he could accept it. Presently he leaned forward and laid his forehead against Trowa's shoulder. "I can't just... dodge responsibility like that." 

"It's not about you trying to take responsibility or avoid it. This is magic beyond your control. If the energy that possessed you were weak enough that you could resist its influence, the Confrérie wouldn't have wanted it from you, and it wouldn't be strong enough to force Sano to fight Hajime like this. It was definitely too much for you to resist. You haven't done anything wrong." 

If Trowa's one area of expertise hadn't been so involved here, he would certainly have found offering these terms of reassurance much more difficult. He wasn't good at reassurance, and even in the face of that expertise it didn't seem Quatre was particularly reassured. At least, his hands were tight as he raised them to clutch at Trowa, and his voice was tight with unhappiness and anger as he spoke in reply: 

"But even if that's true, it doesn't change anything about the person who's actually possessed -- it doesn't make _me_ a different person. The energy has to have something to work with in the first place, doesn't it? And it's all been _real_ \-- every nasty little thing I said was something I really think, something that would already have been in the back of my head even if I hadn't been so mad!" His gripping fingers pushed at, slightly shook Trowa for emphasis; but then, undoubtedly remembering the contact between those hands and Trowa last night, Quatre let go abruptly, though he did not cease or slow his rant. 

"Every stupid, childish, unfair, mean thing I've said or done since this started -- just because I wouldn't normally have said or done those things doesn't mean they're not all there inside me." He pounded against his own chest, not with great accuracy if he was aiming for his heart but just as effectively for conveying his meaning. "I'm a terrible person at heart, Trowa! Yes, it took being possessed to bring it out, but that doesn't change what I am!" 

It made Trowa ache to hear these words and the seriousness behind them, and he wondered if this was how Quatre had felt when _he_ had expressed similar beliefs about himself in the past. He couldn't let Quatre become any more firmly entrenched in the horrible concept; he had to say something to pull him back away from it. He just didn't know if he could say the right thing... though he was, of course, going to try. 

"Quatre... If that's what's in your terrible heart... if that's the worst of it... then I still think what I've thought all along: that you're probably a better person than most of the rest of the world." 

"What?" Quatre almost snapped. 

"You've been rude and unpleasant, and sometimes... petty... and thoughtless... but is that the worst that's in your heart?" 

"Trowa! I _hit_ you!" Quatre shook his head in jerky, horrified anger. "Obviously my heart has some abusive tendencies in it, at the very least!" 

"That's not true." There was some impatience in Trowa's tone this time as well. "It wasn't abuse; you obviously had no idea what you were doing. Even under the influence of that energy, you wouldn't have done it if you'd been aware of your surroundings. And I don't believe you'll ever do anything like that again." 

"But you can't be sure!" 

The exchange raised in Trowa's head a memory of a somewhat parallel discussion earlier this year, and he wondered if Quatre recognized it as well when he replied, "I can't. But I believe it anyway." 

Again Quatre was shaking his head, somewhat convulsively, and Trowa decided to try a different point that had just come to mind before Quatre could collect another argument. "And even if you think you see all these terrible things in yourself, it _did_ take supernatural possession to bring them out. Under your own control, you _don't_ say or do things like that. I think recognizing those impulses and restraining them makes you an even better person than if you didn't feel them in the first place." 

"But..." Quatre looked as if he might be convinced against his will. "You can't just ignore or erase the fact that I've been hurting people." 

"You must know I know how difficult it is to get over something you've done wrong. But you can regret it without hating yourself. That's what you've been wanting me to do all along, isn't it?" 

Once more Quatre's jaw and lips worked soundlessly, and his brows contracted as his eyes welled with tears. Then he pushed forward again, clutching. Abstractedly, Trowa rather hoped Hajime and Sano were still busy with their violence some yards away -- his attention was too engrossed to check -- because it would appear to them, if they were watching, as if Quatre was bouncing off Trowa's torso in slow motion throughout this strange conversation. Now he was almost inaudible against Trowa's shoulder as he asked, "Where did all this confidence come from?" 

"I'm just trying to help you," Trowa answered in some embarrassment, raising both arms around Quatre's back. 

"After how I've treated you lately..." Quatre sounded both wondering and irritated, and Trowa thought one emotion was directed at him, the other reflexively. 

"I absolutely forgive you," stated Trowa immediately. "Anyone who loves you will forgive you. They've probably all forgiven you already." 

"Not my family," was Quatre's wretched reply. "Not the people at work. You and Heero and Duo understand what's been going on, but nobody else I really care about does." 

"Actually, your parents know." Trowa's intention had been to go on, to offer the comfort that the Winners' only desire was for Quatre to return to them safe and sound, that they had evinced no unhappiness with their son, but after only those four words Quatre broke in: 

"What?! How?" Yet again he pushed away from Trowa, shocked and irate. "Since when?" 

And as Trowa prepared, somewhat regretful, to tell the story as unincitingly as possible, he wondered whether it had been a significant mistake to mention this at all. To keep up this conversation, pressing his opinion so continually, had been such an effort, had already rendered Trowa so emotionally tense and tired... if this was his first significant mistake, it would be something of a miracle. 

At least recounting his interaction with Quatre's parents and any subsequent discussion on the subject might be a good method of passing time. Trowa wasn't sure how long they must wait before further exorcism was available, and he doubted they could sleep the hours away in this instance. It might, however, be exactly the wrong news for Quatre right now; it might only serve to make him feel unduly guilty again, whip him up into another emotional frenzy. And was he in the correct frame of mind to call his parents yet? He would probably want to, and Trowa didn't think he could refuse if Quatre insisted, but was that a good idea? Indeed, this might have been a mistake. 

It was too late. All Trowa could do was press on and hope for the best.


	220. La Confrérie de la Lune Révéré Part 57

  


The door was answered eventually by a weary-looking Trowa, who welcomed them in with pleasure that formed a significant contrast to his apparent overall emotional state. The first thing he said was, "There's never any reason for you to knock on my door. Just come in." 

"Well, if it's locked..." said Duo reasonably as he moved forward for a hug. 

"Then you can unlock it with magic," Trowa replied with a faint smile, returning the embrace. And though Heero had no power to effect the mentioned magic, he felt he was specifically included in this admonition. 

"How's Quatre?" asked Duo next. 

Trowa's facial expression in response was so mixed as to be unreadable, but his words were more definitive: "Cured. The energy is entirely gone as of about an hour ago." 

"But...?" Heero prompted. 

Trowa lowered his voice to match Heero's quiet tone. "He's not exactly happy. He's thinking pretty badly of himself right now." And there was such a sense of grimness and guilt about him as he said it, a clear mirror of Quatre's reported state, that the hearts of both his friends went out to him. 

"It isn't up to just you to make him feel better. We'll all help." In fact Heero longed to talk to Quatre as soon as possible, to see how he was and do what he could to improve that condition, and to demonstrate to himself that Quatre really was completely cured as Trowa said. "Where is he?" 

"In there. He's..." Trowa's initial gesture indicating the living room turned to one of helplessness, which drew the other two men immediately to him. 

"Hey... Trois... it'll be OK..." Duo was hugging him again. "We'll figure it out." 

In his pity, Heero actually put a hand on Trowa's arm as he reiterated Duo's statement. He wanted to continue reassuringly, but, fearing it would take too long to decide how to word what he had to say, just sent the idea mentally instead: that he'd become convinced in the last couple of days -- if he hadn't already known -- that even if things weren't perfect right now and might take some time to fix, it wasn't hopeless; it was a situation they could get through, that would improve. 

Trowa, from where he remained enveloped by Duo and couldn't quite turn any look toward Heero -- comforted or otherwise -- at least nodded. 

There was more Heero could have sent. He needed to recount what had happened at Galerie de la Lune after Trowa had taken Quatre home; he needed to inform him that the weird agents had promised to deal with the magical painting, and in fact he needed to tell him about the magical painting in the first place and discuss the weird agents and whether Trowa knew anything about them and whether they were likely to encounter them again. 

But Heero felt no urgency about any of this right now, not only because there were more pressing matters at the moment, not only because none of it would make Trowa feel better, but because opportunity for this conversation would be available to them at any time. As Trowa had essentially said, his door was always open to Heero. And there was always, Heero considered with resigned glumness, texting. At the moment, since he sensed that Duo was going to remain attached to Trowa in an effort to offer what further solace he could, he simply turned and headed into the next room. 

Mismatched shorts and t-shirt rumpled, hair disheveled, demeanor guarded, Quatre stood near the sheet-covered sofa staring into the back yard. He looked very much as he had that day in his office when they'd waited for Hajime to arrive, but today, presumably, it was a different set of emotions that had him so stiff. This wasn't a defensive standoffishness; rather, it was as if Quatre still smarted from recent events, and had drawn himself up in fear of being touched. 

Not knowing exactly what he would say, Heero approached quietly to join Quatre at the window. 

"I thought I heard your voice," Quatre said in a pale imitation of his normal tone. "And Duo's. You guys made it back OK, then, I guess." 

"Yeah." Heero didn't feel the need to mention how bad Duo's nightmares had been in the Louisiana hotel, nor his belief that anxiety on other subjects stirred them up; nor that Duo, tired and agitated after his disturbed night, had slept through much of the flight and again missed his chance at reveling in the new human experience, though he'd awakened sufficiently at disembarking from the plane to drive them back to Trowa's house from the airport. 

"It was amazing that all three of you went all the way out there." Sluggishly Quatre turned to face Heero. "I may have acted like a jerk when you showed up, but now I really appreciate it." 

Saddened but unsurprised at the redness of Quatre's eyes and the puffy bags beneath them, Heero nodded acknowledgement. 

"And I'm sorry, too. Dragging you all the way out there just because I made a bad decision..." 

"It was inconvenient," Heero admitted, "but it's OK. I've always wanted to try some authentic Cajun food in New Orleans." He wasn't about to bring up the relationship drama that had taken place there, since that would undoubtedly have arisen eventually no matter what the circumstances or where they were. Heero blamed Quatre no more for that than he blamed Duo himself. 

Though he didn't necessarily feel hurt or betrayed by his boyfriend's behavior or attitudes of the day before, he perhaps felt a little hurt and betrayed by his own nature, and couldn't help dwelling on it to some extent even in the midst of this business with Quatre. It almost seemed he'd had a mean trick played on him by destiny, or heredity, or magic, or something. It was as if he'd walked away unscathed from a car accident: in something of a daze, he almost couldn't believe it had happened, and now there was nothing to be done but adjust to the change it had caused in his life. In this case, the change was nothing he could specifically pinpoint; it had to do with his closeness with Duo, a state he had not lost but in which something was altered, some aspect put on hold until a certain remedy could be enacted, and Heero could only wait patiently for that time. 

He would want to talk to his best friend about all of this eventually. Honestly, he'd love to talk to him about it now. Quatre was one of very few people in the world with whom he would feel comfortable discussing such personal details, and whose opinion and probable offers of comfort he would value. But at the moment Quatre would, most likely, consider some or all of it his fault, so Heero wasn't going to broach the subject. 

"Running off to New Orleans in a tantrum wasn't the only thing, though," Quatre continued with a sigh. "I also said things to you that nobody should say to his best friend." 

"You pretty much said," Heero agreed, "that I'm no good in a manager's position because I don't like exercising authority over people, and I'm a less than perfect friend because I have a hard time telling people important things." 

"I'm so sorry," Quatre murmured. 

Heero shrugged. "It was totally true. You've known me for ten years; there's probably not a lot of what's wrong with me that you don't know." 

"I still shouldn't have said it." 

"I don't know. I don't know whether or not friends should point out each other's problems and maybe help each other change. It might actually be a good idea. I... don't know." 

"Well, I shouldn't have said it the _way_ I said it." 

"I'll give you that," Heero allowed. "It hurt, and, honestly, it kinda still hurts to remember it." 

Even more faintly and unhappily this time, Quatre repeated, "I'm so sorry." 

"I forgive you," replied Heero immediately. 

Quatre gave a self-deprecating snort. "Just like that, huh?" 

"Yeah." Heero raised his hands one at a time to illustrate his two points. "You hurt me, and I forgive you." As he watched fresh tears spring into Quatre's tired eyes he added, "I think you'll do better if you know exactly where we stand." He feared that, despite his entirely believing it, if he walked in here and said, 'None of it was your fault,' Quatre would only feel worse. "You hurt me," he reiterated, "and I forgive you: that's what you have to deal with." 

"I hurt more than just you." 

"I think this applies to everything you said and did. You're... sometimes stupidly responsible about things, so of course you can't just let go of something you did wrong, no matter what the circumstances were. You hurt people, and they forgive you, and you have to learn to accept that. It'll be completely understandable if it takes you a while and you have to struggle for it." 

Abruptly Quatre threw his arms around Heero, pushing forward into a close embrace. "Thank you," he said brokenly. "You're right: I appreciate you putting it that way." After a moment he added, "And I'm sorry... you're not really a huggy person." 

"But you are," Heero replied, any awkwardness that might have colored his tone overridden by his amusement and the relief he felt at Quatre's altered demeanor. "Whatever it takes." The truth was that Quatre was also one of very few people in the world Heero was (more or less) comfortable accepting this kind of physical demonstration from, and he didn't mind too terribly raising his arms to squeeze him in return. 

For several seconds -- probably not as long as Quatre would have liked, but longer than Heero did, though he didn't begrudge it him -- Quatre dragged out the hug, then finally let go and stepped back. He didn't exactly look happier than before, but there was a new determination about him that had replaced the vulnerability. 

"You're going to be OK..." Heero wasn't sure whether he was asking or commanding. 

Quatre took a deep breath and then puffed it out in a sound like a sigh that was trying to be anything else. "It feels really good not to be angry." He said it like an admission of wrongdoing, which fit perfectly with his next words: "I feel a little guilty about feeling _so much better_, but feeling this much better -- and some things you and Trowa have said -- makes me believe I _should_ be OK. 

"Right now," he went on, "I want to curl up in a ball and avoid the whole world for a while -- so it's lucky it's Friday -- but at the same time I'm just so happy not to be _hating_ the whole world anymore, which is a strange contrast. I feel guilty about being so happy, like I said, and guilty and _un_happy about how I've been behaving, especially what I've said and done to my friends. And then, again, at the same time, I feel incredibly blessed and grateful to have you guys around, to have friends who would go all the way across the country to drag me back home and then jump straight into trying to make me feel better even after everything I've done." Quatre shook his head, and this sigh sounded much more like a sigh, perhaps even a little like a sob. 

Heero usually wasn't able to come up with quotes at appropriate moments -- Duo was not only much more skilled at that than he was, but much more inclined to try -- so he was rather pleased with himself now when he managed, "One person can't feel all that at once. They'd explode." 

Weakly Quatre laughed, and hugged Heero once more. "Thank you for everything," was his muffled statement. "Thanks for being my friend." 

"It would take more than a magical bad mood to change that," Heero replied seriously. 

"Speaking of magic..." said Quatre as he again pulled out of the hug. "Well, first, I apologize for being so snippy about it before. I didn't even realize I was jealous about being the only one without magic until all that nonsense brought it out." 

"It makes sense to be jealous," Heero shrugged. Then, when it looked like Quatre might press the issue, he added more pointedly, "I forgive you for that too." 

Quatre pursed his lips briefly, then let out another sighing breath. Accepting clemency really was going to be his major struggle in days to come. "Anyway," he said at last, "I understand I've entirely missed the beginning of your magic." 

With a wry monosyllabic chuckle, "It's been... interesting," Heero said. 

"I want to hear all about it, if you don't mind telling." 

"If you need distracting that badly." 

"I do, but I also really want to know. I'm annoyed that this whole thing has made me miss watching it firsthand." 

"All right," Heero smiled. "It actually started just when you destroyed that artifact..."


	221. La Confrérie de la Lune Révéré Part 58

  


Duo was forced to desist hugging Trowa as the latter, very much like a dog with its pleading eyes locked on the bearer of desired treats, swiveled insistently to watch Heero walk into the other room. Trowa had undoubtedly spent the last twenty-four hours agonizing over Quatre's state and trying to figure out how to help him, and was now anxiously waiting to see what effect Heero might have on this endeavor. Yet when he turned back to Duo, there was a surprising amount of tranquility in his face and bearing. He seemed to have nothing to say at the moment, for he just moved to the nearby staircase balustrade and leaned against it. 

Feeling likewise no need to say more for now, Duo followed and threw himself down on the third step, leaning back and looking at the ceiling high above. He heard the voices of Heero and Quatre distantly, and, though he could make out none of their conversation, he had no problem leaving them to it. He was tired anyway, and after a while closed his eyes. 

Presently, though, it did occur to him to ask, "Is that exorcist still here?" 

"They're both still here," Trowa confirmed. 

"Oh, Sano's here too?" Duo sat straight and twisted around to look up the stairs toward the second-floor room where he assumed the exorcists must be. "I should go see if he wants to come over and watch the game on Sunday." 

"I would recommend waiting until they come out on their own," replied Trowa. "You didn't see their exorcism method." 

"Why? What was it like?" Duo wondered with interest. And as Trowa told him, he found himself grinning and wincing. "OK, yeah," he eventually agreed, "maybe I won't go bug Sano yet, then." 

Placing a hand on the staircase's off-white finial, Trowa stared at it as if into the crystal ball it somewhat resembled. "Quatre feels like he forced them to fight each other. Of course he feels guilty about that too." 

Duo nodded, screwing up his lips thoughtfully. "It makes sense for him to feel guilty. He's put everyone -- especially you -- through a lot, and, if I know Quatre at all, he probably doesn't care much that it wasn't really his fault. But you know what? I'm not _nearly_ as worried about it as you guys obviously are." 

Trowa looked over at him, clearly curious, silently soliciting Duo to go on. 

Duo did, with a smile. "Heero got annoyed at me, back when this started, for not taking it seriously enough, and he might get annoyed again now... but the thing is, I've been watching a different friend of mine, who did something _way_ worse than what Quatre's done, working on getting over that and accepting himself as still a good person, and he's been doing pretty damn well so far." 

Weakly Trowa returned Duo's expression. "He's had Quatre to help him, though." 

"And now Quatre has him," Duo replied matter-of-factly: "a guy who didn't give up trying to help a friend for eighty-seven years." He rolled his eyes, not as a gesture of sarcasm but to emphasize his point. "I'd have to be out of my _mind_ to be worried with _that_ guy around. Though, like Heero said, it's not just your-- _that guy's_ job to make Quatre feel better." 

For a moment Trowa's smile strengthened as he seemed to accept this offer of confidence, but then it faded again. "Are you still upset with... that guy?" 

"Um... not really," Duo answered after a brief search of his emotions. "I was pretty mad and hurt for a while, but it's mostly faded away by now. Plus Heero thinks I should go easy on you, and I kindof agree." He hadn't planned on bringing this up so soon -- he'd thought it would be best to wait until the business with Quatre was good and over, so as not to heap too many troubles onto Trowa's head at once -- but since Trowa had introduced the subject, they might as well get it over with. 

"I am sorry I didn't tell you," Trowa said. "I haven't really had much opportunity to think about it since the airplane, but I'm sorry I hurt you." 

"It's all right. Just, when you do get around to thinking about it -- and you've probably got a lot to think about right now, so don't even worry about it if it takes a while -- think about not keeping important stuff like that secret in the future." 

Trowa nodded. "At the time, I didn't think it was worth giving up your chance at being human just to keep me alive, so I didn't want to run the risk of you deciding to cancel everything." 

"I guess I'm not really surprised," Duo said unhappily, "but it's really awful to think about you thinking your own life's so worthless." 

"That's changed." This assurance was quick and definite. "Quatre pulled me out of that way of thinking... rather aggressively, really." Trowa smiled again. "In fact, by the time the curse actually broke, I was ready to admit to him that I hoped I would survive, that I wanted to live." 

"But you still didn't tell me." 

"At that point it didn't even occur to me that I should, I was so caught up in other things. If I'd thought about it, though, I probably still wouldn't have told you... I wouldn't have wanted to spoil your hope and your excitement with something I wasn't even sure about." 

There was something about this line of reasoning that, the more Duo thought about it, struck him as chillingly familiar. He pondered quickly and intensely, and as the complete memory occurred to him all at once, he could almost hear his own voice -- an enchanted doll's overly quiet voice -- saying, _"Don't anyone mention this to Trowa, OK? He shouldn't have to worry about it before he has to. Especially if it turns out he doesn't have to worry about it at all."_

"Good god!" he exclaimed inadvertently with a horrified laugh. "I did the exact same thing to you!" 

"Did you?" wondered the startled Trowa. 

"Yes! There was this one time Heero and I got far enough apart that we were afraid it might have screwed up breaking the curse -- though we didn't know for sure -- and I told him and Quatre not to tell you for that exact same reason: I didn't want to spoil _your_ hope with something _I_ wasn't sure about." 

"Oh, yes. When Quatre's dog took you out of Heero's psychic field? Quatre mentioned that." 

Bristling at the offhand way Trowa made this acknowledgment, righteously indignant at himself, Duo jumped up from the stair and glared at nothing. "Here I was thinking about how you not telling me something important and not letting me make my own choices was a controlling thing I was going to have to ask you to promise to not do again, and I did the _exact same thing_!" 

"I don't think it was 'the _exact_ same thing,'" Trowa said, and there might have been a hint of amusement to the protest. "The secrets we kept were very different in scope, and we were each in a very different situation, so the effects were different." 

Duo couldn't deny this, especially since it seemed to indicate Trowa's specific understanding of the problem, but that didn't make him less annoyed with himself. He was just opening his mouth to say so when, at the last possible moment -- practically in the middle of his first syllable -- it occurred to him that expressions of self-blame from him right now would probably be the exact heaping of troubles of Trowa's head that he'd been seeking to avoid. 

Miraculously, Trowa seemed to be in a pretty decent place emotionally at the moment -- perhaps Duo's presence and conversation really had helped to comfort and distract him -- and adding a second guilty friend to his concerns was not likely to move him in any good direction. And in any case, this was all six-month-old news -- no need to belabor it any further; Duo himself probably shouldn't be dwelling on it in the first place. 

So he closed his mouth, took a breath, reconsidered, and said instead, "Look at you and me trying not to hurt each other and getting it completely wrong." He grinned, and raised a formal hand. "I solemnly swear, from now on, to tell..." Realizing abruptly that he had the wrong hand up, he quickly corrected himself and resumed, "To tell you anything that has to do with you and choices you need to make for your own life, so help me whatever." 

Trowa chuckled, and, stepping forward, reached out to pull Duo's upthrust hand back down in his own right for a firm handshake. "It's a bargain," he said. "We won't keep important things from each other." His tone was a little sardonic as he added, "Quatre once said we should all four get together and make a pact not to do that, so we'll need to let him and Heero in on this when we have the chance." 

Duo struggled not to frown. What with Quatre's guilty, unhappy frame of mind and the totally stupid and unforeseen trust issues between Duo and Heero, that might be easier said than properly done. 

But Trowa, rather unexpectedly, evidently seeing Duo's shift in mood, was suddenly the one to say, "Don't worry. We'll all be fine." He squeezed Duo's hand and released it, then leaned back against the balustrade again, the picture of patient faith for the future. 

Duo found his grin returning. "Yeah, of course we will," he said firmly. And he meant it.


	222. La Confrérie de la Lune Révéré Part 59

From how he'd felt at waking on Friday, the difference in Quatre's sensations Saturday morning was, he believed, a symbol of his general improvement. Sleep, as it so often did, had settled everything into its proper place and given him not only some perspective on what he felt and what he needed to do, but the rest for both body and mind that would allow him to deal with both. 

He was still conscious of guilt in response both to the wrongs he'd perpetrated and to feeling so much better about life after having perpetrated them. He still had a growing mental list of things he needed to say to people, and a looming awareness of the probable difficulty of some of those conversations. But he deemed himself nearly prepared, now, to plunge in. In fact he seemed so energized, so fit and well, that it might have contributed to his guilt if it hadn't already contributed to his determination and readiness to work on everything he needed to accomplish. 

Today Trowa had evidently awakened first, and had probably been patiently waiting for Quatre to wake up and set the tone of the day. And Quatre determined instantly to be extremely careful about that tone, to avoid starting things out wrong and threatening poor Trowa with another day of unpleasantness. This was difficult when a sharp pain of heart stabbed Quatre all over again at the sight of those bruises, but he forced himself to smile at least a little as he sat up and looked over at his boyfriend on the other side of the air mattress. 

Trowa returned the smile with apparent relief, and Quatre reflected that the prediction he'd once made -- that he would never cease being moved by the sight of a smile on that often emotionless face -- was still entirely borne out even months later. 

"Good morning," Trowa said, also shifting into a seated position. And though there was caution in the phrase -- he couldn't know, yet, how Quatre would behave or what his mood might be -- the fact that he'd initiated the greeting, the first exchange of the day, spoke of a probing, a testing of circumstances, rather than a tentative response made only by necessity. He really had grown more confident, and, though this was nothing more than the natural progression Quatre had long foreseen, it seemed to have been accelerated somehow over the last few weeks. Shameful as it was to consider, perhaps there had been effects of Quatre's awful condition that weren't entirely negative. 

"Good morning," Quatre echoed, reaching out. Trowa reached back with a hand so warm and strong that Quatre's confidence increased. He was unexpectedly secure in Trowa's support, and his joy at seeing that Trowa had come so far as to offer rather than require support was something over which he was determined _not_ to experience any guilt. 

"How are you feeling?" Trowa asked, just as he had yesterday. 

"Guilty, dirty, and hungry," Quatre replied, "in that order. And like I have a lot to do. And..." The desire to be honest with Trowa, and to reassure him if he could, compelled him to confess, "And I'm extremely happy not to be so angry." 

Trowa's relief, not to mention his smile, remained in evidence. "I'm happy to hear you're happy about anything," he said. "As for hunger, Heero promised yesterday -- declared, really -- that he's coming over to make breakfast this morning. And as for guilty and dirty..." He evidently wasn't sure what to say about guilty and dirty. "Why dirty?" 

"I mean actually -- physically dirty." Quatre pushed the blanket down his naked body, seeing no visible grime but feeling no less grimy. "I don't know how many days it's been since I had a real wash." 

"Oh. That can be helped." Trowa let go and rose in a motion whose near-complete lack of abashment even more than its revelation of his lean, pale body, bare but for his briefs, could only raise admiration in the man that subsequently sank further into the air mattress as he became the primary weight thereon. 

In a prediction similar to that about the smile, Quatre doubted that he'd ever cease being attracted to Trowa. He might even be in the mood this very day for some physical reassurance, some proof that Trowa still considered him someone worth being attracted to in return -- later, when his own body wasn't quite so nasty after the many imperfect sponge baths in a muggy New Orleans basement, and when he'd at least made a start on the reparations for his own behavior of recent days that were nagging at him. 

Rising as well, he followed Trowa into the master bathroom that, though he'd seen it abstractly a few times while making use of its toilet as needed during the previous day and nights, he had not yet examined properly. Now he found it to be spacious, nicely equipped, and painted in decent blues that went fairly well with its grey appliances; and, fond as he wasn't of carpet in a bathroom, he could get over that. 

After his first glance around, his eyes were drawn, thanks to Trowa's gesture, to a step leading up into a huge corner bathtub walled such that it could be curtained off and used as a shower as well, though the curtain Trowa had once expressed uncertainty about his reason for owning was absent. Perhaps it had been destroyed in the fire. 

Quatre gave a vocal sigh of happiness and surprise when he recognized some of his own personal care products lined up along the edge of this bathtub, and he moved swiftly forward to seize the closest of them. "These survived? I can't believe it." 

"If they hadn't," said Trowa, "I could easily go pick up new ones for you. But, yes, they did." 

It struck Quatre anew, much less miserably but no less forcibly than it had in New Orleans, just how much of life he'd missed out on over the last few weeks. This was Trowa's _new house_, wasn't it? How much had he paid for it? How had he managed to move in so quickly? How big was it? _Where_, in fact, was it? Quatre had visited only a few rooms and stared unseeingly into what he assumed was the back yard, and none of that in a frame of mind conducive to any real analysis. And he had no idea how many of Trowa's possessions had made the transition from one home to another, how many essential items Trowa might be lacking now. 

Answering only a fraction of this question, "The shower curtain survived too," Trowa went on, "if you'd prefer a shower to a bath. I've had it up in the hall bathroom so Hajime could use it, but I can bring it in here." 

Perplexed, Quatre looked up from the shampoo bottle in his hand and asked, "How long has Hajime been here?" It made some sense that the two exorcists had spent the last couple of nights here after the effort required for the three-stage absorption process -- though what they were sleeping on and under Quatre could not guess -- but it seemed, from Trowa's words, as if at least Hajime had been here longer. 

"About a week." 

"Why?" 

Only reluctantly did Trowa answer, undoubtedly uncomfortable at providing information he knew would make Quatre unhappy. "The police wanted to question him when you disappeared, and he wanted to avoid that." 

And indeed Quatre's heart sank. He had more to apologize for even than he'd realized, and Hajime was just one entry on a list, ever-growing like that of people Quatre needed to talk to in the first place, of those that might not accept his apology. At least he could substantiate _that_ apology with money, since his relationship with the exorcist was solely professional in the first place. With many others he would not have that luxury. 

He took a deep breath. "Well, don't worry about the shower curtain; a bath sounds amazing. We can talk while I scrub my skin off." 

Trowa pushed forward to turn on the tap, murmuring something impossible to catch over the sudden roar of water into the big echoing tub; but when the latter noise vanished entirely, Quatre realized what (in purport, at least) Trowa must have said. It was fascinating to watch the water pour down in complete silence as if it were a muted video rather than reality, and it was delightful, as always, to observe Trowa working magic. 

"Thank you," Quatre smiled, stepping into the pooling water. It was cold yet, but he sat down anyway, pushing a swiveling plug to seal the drain and then turning to take stock of exactly which bathing products he had access to here. 

"You're welcome," replied Trowa. "Leave some of your skin, though. You may want it later." 

Quatre threw a grin toward where his boyfriend now leaned against the counter beside the sink, and saw that Trowa was eyeing him covetously. The fact that this grin was the happiest expression Quatre had worn for some time, coupled with that shiver-inducing gaze from someone that obviously still loved him and desired him in spite of everything, seemed to set his heart on fire, which made the water around him feel even colder by contrast. 

"You've changed," he said. "I like it." 

Trowa blushed, which was very sweet, and admitted, "I did have a bit of a breakdown at one point while you were gone, but I also made up my mind to... to be what you -- to be what we _both_ needed." 

The first tears not prompted by wretchedness in quite a few days sprang into Quatre's eyes, and his heart burned hotter than ever. "You're amazing. You've certainly done better than I have lately." He fumbled the bottle of body wash he'd just picked up, and it fell with a soundless splash into the deepening, warming water. "You even managed to move into a new house insanely soon after your old one burned. I'm sorry, by the way, for what I said about that. You obviously didn't need your hand held." 

"You don't need to apologize for every individual thing," Trowa said a little awkwardly. "I probably could have used some hand-holding... buying the house when I did might not have been the best idea." 

Quatre, lathering up with body wash he'd recovered from its brief floating evasion of his hand, let go the issue of apology and only asked, "Why?" 

"As I said the other day, I have almost nothing left in my bank account... I need to sit down at someone's computer and manage some of my investments before any of my new monthly bills come due... and besides..." Blush deepening, Trowa turned abruptly and stared at his own face in the mirror above the counter. A flick of eyes would have allowed him to look at the reflection of Quatre, but he kept them locked with their counterparts in the glass. "I want you to move in with me." The perfect steadiness of his words was perhaps facilitated by that self-encouraging gaze. "And I should have waited for your input. Buying a new house made me feel more proactive, and better about everything, but--" 

He got no farther with his explanation, since just then he was pinned against the counter in an enveloping hug from behind by a Quatre whose rise from the bath had been completely unheralded, thanks to Trowa's silencing spell, by any splashing sounds that might otherwise have given his movements away. As Quatre crushed him with the unexpected, intense embrace, the only further sound Trowa could make was one of breathless surprise. 

From where he'd laid his face against Trowa's shoulder, Quatre whispered his lover's name, then continued, "It is completely inappropriate of you to be _rewarding_ me at this point." 

Squirming around -- an effort made easier, most probably, by the soapy substance all over Quatre's skin -- Trowa wondered in a facetious murmur, still somewhat breathless, as he put his own arms around Quatre's wet back, "So you _don't_ want to move in with me?" 

"_Of course_ I want to move in with you. But thinking about all the trouble I've caused lately makes me feel like the worst person in the world for accepting something that makes me so happy." 

"I don't want you to feel like the worst person in the world when I consider you the best," said Trowa gravely, "so I'll propose a compromise: move in with me after you've talked to everyone, when you've put things right." 

"Putting things right may involve more than just talking to everyone..." Looking into Trowa's serious eyes, Quatre didn't know if he could handle this much swelling emotion. "But that's an excellent compromise. If I get discouraged, I'll have moving in with you as an extra incentive." Again he laid his face on Trowa's shoulder and clasped him tightly. "And I would kiss you very thoroughly right now if I had brushed my teeth yet." 

"Keep hold of that thought while you finish your bath. Then you can brush your teeth, kiss me very thoroughly, and go downstairs for whatever Heero's making for us for breakfast. And take a tour of your future home, if you want." 

"I do want." Reluctantly Quatre pulled away from Trowa and returned to what was by now a nicely hot and nearly half-full bath -- it really was a big tub. "And then I can call my parents and have a more coherent conversation than the other day and figure out how much trouble I'm in for keeping them in the dark for six months -- oh, and make sure they talk to the police and clear all that up -- and _then_ I can arrange to give those exorcists some huge amount of money, after I apologize for my rudeness. I have no _real_ problem with Jos Banks." 

"As always, working from a well organized list." Trowa was again leaning on the counter, bare skin gleaming where Quatre had pressed against him. 

"These are preliminary items," Quatre sighed, "that I have to get done before I can even _start_ on the list." 

"Let me know if I can help in any way. With anything." Trowa still seemed a little awkward making such a blatant offer of assistance and support, and Quatre, far from being put off by the impression, more or less adored it. 

"Just keep reminding me that you love me even after everything." 

"I love you even after everything." 

Quatre sealed his smiling mouth, and washed the tears from his eyes by completely submerging his head in the water.


	223. That Remarkable Optimism

  


The number of M&M's in the bowl was nothing short of comic. It was Heero's biggest mixing bowl, and barely fit anywhere in his kitchen cabinets to begin with, and here the M&M's were heaped up above the top of the rim in a colorful mountain that occasionally suffered little clattering avalanches onto the counter or floor. 

"How many packages is this?" he wondered in audible amusement. 

"Is what?" replied Duo, then, turning, saw. "Oh," he chuckled. "I dunno... like, eight?" 

"How did I not notice you buying, like, eight packages of M&M's?" 

"You were too distracted by my butt." 

"That is probably true. But why did you think you needed that many M&M's at once?" 

"Why _wouldn't_ I need that many M&M's all at once?" 

Heero conceded the point by scooping up a large number (there was no need for moderation) and cramming them between his teeth. Some moderation might perhaps have been warranted after all, since he then found it rather difficult to chew the unwieldy mouthful, but after several moments of maneuvering he made a pleasant discovery. "Reefa awmun," he said. 

"Yeah, what did you think?" 

Rather than attempt to speak again with a largely unusable tongue, Heero worked a bit, swallowed, and eventually said, "I thought they were peanut." 

Haughtily Duo drew himself up. "What kind of infidel do you think I am?" 

Heero just took another handful of candy and, before leaving the living room, stepped close to Duo and pecked him on the cheek. "Well, don't be surprised if I eat seven of your eight packages there." 

"You sure you're not going to watch with us?" Duo wondered as Heero made his way around the couch. His unspoken thought on the matter was that he'd only asked out of politeness; of course he always wanted Heero with him, but, familiar with Heero's disinterest in football, didn't want to pressure him. 

"I'm going to see what I can do about the computer." This reply was somewhat grim, as it was far past time. 

Duo laughed. "Good luck!" And even as he said this, a knock at the door signaled the arrival of his guest. 

Heero quickened his pace. It wasn't that he had anything against Sano (or any of Duo's new friends), but, since he wasn't going to be actively hanging out with the guy, there was no reason to meet him at the door. He munched on his second handful of M&M's a couple at a time as he took a seat at the desk, booted up the computer, and listened to the conversation in the living room. 

"Hope you don't mind expired Chinese food," was Sano's reply to Duo's enthusiastic welcome. 

"Expired like how?" 

"Expired like we're not allowed to sell it anymore, but it's still just fine, so we all take it home for free even though we're technically not supposed to." 

"I love that kind of Chinese food!" 

"That is a _lot_ of M&M's there." 

"I know! I totally have dessert covered!" 

"They're so big, though... are they peanut?" 

"Hah! Heero thought that too, but I am so much better than that. They're almond." 

"Shit." 

The sudden sound of the TV drowned out whatever Duo said next, and the surface level of his head was mostly trying to remember what the channel number for Fox was, but Heero assumed he asked what had prompted Sano's profanity. Next came a sense of disproportionate disconsolation when Sano apparently revealed that he was allergic to almonds. 

Heero spent the following few minutes pondering whether he should head into the other room and grab some more M&M's for himself. The discovery that Duo's guest could not enjoy the snack he had so sanguinely provided had prompted such disappointment that Heero, in the hopes of cheering him, would love to prove the purchase of so many almond M&M's not a waste... but to do so would also, quite possibly, indicate that Heero was aware of just how disappointed Duo was, which would, rather than lessening Duo's disappointment, merely send it off in a different direction by reminding him that Heero could still, especially when they were at home, hear his surface-level thoughts. 

This was excessively frustrating. He wanted to make a nice gesture for his boyfriend (in addition to his simple desire for more M&M's), and it seemed unfair to have to waffle over it like this. He wasn't even working on the computer as he'd planned, merely sitting idly debating the relative merits of fetching or not fetching another handful of candy from the next room. 

Eventually kickoff provided what seemed a decent distraction. If Duo's disappointment had faded a bit, he might not make the connection between Heero's errand and the fact that Heero had just been reading his mind, and Heero might be able to send his boyfriend one message while avoiding another. It was worth a try. So from where he'd accomplished nothing so far Heero rose and went back in there. 

Surrounded by the already-separated contents of a six-pack of Coke and Chinese takeout boxes whose multiform scents permeated the living room (though they had not yet crept down the hall), Duo and his young exorcist friend sat on the sofa engrossed in the first quarter of the Oakland Raiders vs. Heero was not quite sure whom. They both looked up as Heero rounded the TV. 

"Hey, Heero," Sano greeted. "Want some Chinese leftovers?" 

"No, thanks." Heero quickly scanned what was already more than a bit of a mess (and probably destined to expand as such), murmuring, "I really just wanted..." His eyes lighted on the colorful mixing bowl where it sat a complete arm's length from Duo's end of the sofa as if to keep it as far as possible from Sano, and he resisted the urge to laugh. He approached and bent to retrieve a very large handful of M&M's this time, paying close attention to Duo's thoughts as he did so. It seemed he'd succeeded in his purpose: all that crossed his boyfriend's mind at this point was the somewhat mollified reflection, _At least **Heero** likes them._

Returning to the computer room more or less satisfied, Heero sat down to work through his extensive collection of M&M's and actually pay some attention to the computer. 

One reason (among many Heero was trying to ignore) that Duo's discomfort with Heero's magical abilities seemed so unfair was that Heero was not and probably would never be able to control the aspect of it that bothered his boyfriend. He couldn't stop hearing projected thoughts, especially of someone to whom he was so close, and everything he saw on the internet seemed to indicate this would always be the case. A communicator, it appeared, once his abilities had awakened, was always switched to receive, and the burden fell on others not to send. Heero definitely hadn't asked for that, and it seemed unfair that Duo was so disturbed by something Heero couldn't do anything about and had never sought. But Duo was probably just as unable to control his discomfort as Heero to control his communication powers, so there was no use dwelling on it. 

At the moment, as he began a search about how he could improve the speed and performance of his computer without having to take too much trouble or spend too much (or preferably any) money, he was also, rather perforce, following the progress of a football game he wasn't actually watching. The Raiders were up against the St. Louis Rams, who were playing a rookie quarterback that had already been sacked twice in a row. 

As little interest as Heero had in football, he was yet familiar with the basics of the sport and had no active disliking of it; additionally, he found the sounds of a football game in progress within earshot cheerful background noise. Therefore, that the combination of announcers from the loud TV and reactions from Duo's unguarded head were giving Heero a pretty good idea what went on in the game didn't bother him much. It wasn't as if the computer endeavor required undivided attention. 

While he'd been a doll, Duo had only ever muted the television when trying to pay specific attention to some other aural stimulus, but as a human he had developed the habit of muting it during every commercial break. Heero thought this arose from Duo's desire to exert his autonomy over as many aspects of life as possible: he wasn't tied to the television for entertainment to stave off madness anymore, and therefore could be highly selective about what he paid attention to. Heero didn't complain, as he found the advertising obnoxious in the first place -- and in this specific instance, the muting allowed him to overhear more perfectly a conversation he couldn't make much of while the noisy sounds of the game were mostly drowning it out. 

Of course the first two or three commercial breaks were filled with football talk -- how the Raiders were performing and which of their quarterbacks would end up the star of the season, the Rams' status and whether or not their offensive line deserved excellent running back Steven Jackson, and other such relatively uninteresting topics -- but eventually, when the TV went silent after Fox's somewhat threatening-sounding commercial break music, Sano asked half idly, "So how's your Quatre friend doing?" 

"Oh, he's getting better," Duo replied. "He's working hard on trying to make up for everything he thinks he did wrong. Too hard, if you ask me, but that's what Quatre does." 

"Yeah, he offered to pay me and Hajime, like, double the usual price 'cause he felt so bad about it. Sounded good to me, but of course Hajime said no." There was a wry grin in Sano's tone as he added, "That's what Hajime does." 

"What, turns down money?" 

"Well, he's a real professional, is all... he wouldn't want to take advantage of a decent guy like that." 

Duo laughed. "So he'd take advantage of somebody who wasn't decent?" 

Sano joined him laughing. "He sure as hell doesn't try very hard not to take extra money from assholes." 

"That actually sounds like pretty solid business to me." 

"Right?" 

The conversation (at least that Heero could hear clearly) was suspended for a bit while the game recommenced, but it wasn't long before a failed field goal attempt led to another commercial break and Sano resumed the same topic: 

"So Quatre's really OK, then? I know that kind of shit can really mess people up sometimes." 

"Well, I can't tell you exactly what's going on in his head..." Contrarily, Heero could tell exactly what was going on in Duo's head as he said this: he was thinking once more, as he had off and on ever since it had first been brought up so disastrously that one morning, about the possibility -- the need, in fact -- of therapy for more than one of his friends in addition to himself. The subject hadn't re-arisen aloud, what with the Quatre business and its aftermath, but Heero thought he would have to prod Trowa about it again at some point. 

"But I think," Duo continued, "he really is getting better. He'll probably be OK." He clearly had no idea what he could possibly do if Quatre _wasn't_ OK, and was trying not to think about it. 

"That's good. Getting rid of the shade's only half the job a lot of the time." Interestingly, Sano's tone sounded as if he felt much the same way Duo did -- that, if the situation required more of him beyond the supernatural service already performed, he might be completely lost -- and Heero had to appreciate his sympathetic interest. 

"Trowa's helping a lot, I think." Duo said this not only because he believed it to be true, but because he was so amused at the effect the mention of Trowa had on other members of the magical community. "He knows about this kind of thing." 

"Yeah, I fucking bet!" Sano agreed heartily, after which it was time for more football. Soon, however, the end of the first quarter heralded a slightly longer break than the previous, and Sano proved that his attention to the as-yet-scoreless game had not driven the other interesting topic from his head: "How'd you get to be such good friends with Trowa Barton, anyway?" 

Quickly Duo decided what to say. As far as he was aware -- and it was something he could probably confirm through conversation this afternoon -- Sano didn't know his history, so he must be sure to break it to him in the most dramatic fashion possible. For the moment he went with simple truth. "We lived in the same city in Michigan for about fifteen years and kinda looked out for each other." 

"Shit, you must be pretty damn good if you were looking out for Trowa Barton! What are you, actually?" 

From this Duo was almost certain Sano didn't know about the curse, but he couldn't be as intrigued by the fact as the listening Heero was. Because Heero knew that Hajime _did_ know, and was fairly sure Hajime and Sano were dating and equally taken by the living legend that was Trowa Barton. How odd that Hajime hadn't shared the interesting story with his boyfriend. 

"I'm pure command," Duo said. "Not too bad, but I'm just getting back into practice after a long time not doing magic." 

Heero wished, at least a little, that he could hear anything going through Sano's head so he could determine how the exorcist had taken that statement, why he said nothing at the moment. 

Duo went on, "But you're a natural, aren't you? That's way way cooler than anything. I have literally never met a natural before." Though Sano wouldn't be able to appreciate appropriately that phrase with its term of emphasis. 

"I don't know." Sano sounded annoyed. "Hajime thinks so, but I haven't been able to get any specific reasons out of him. I thought I was just necrovisual, and then maybe a communicator since it turns out I can talk to familiar animals. I haven't seen a damn thing to make me think I've got divination or command." 

"And command's pretty hard to miss," Duo mused. "Maybe there's a test Trowa can do to find out for sure." 

"Ehh, I wouldn't want to bug him about something like that." 

Duo jumped on this. "Why not? He helps people out with magic all the time." 

"Uh, I kinda already... think I kinda got on his bad side." 

With a loud laugh partaking of knowledge Sano lacked, Duo assured him, "Oh, believe me, if you were on Trowa's bad side, you'd totally know it! You don't even have any idea what that guy can do to you." 

Sano mumbled something to the effect of assuming Trowa Barton could do anything he damn well pleased to anyone he didn't like, but his exact words were drowned out by the returning sound of the television. 

Heero had found some recommendations online about various programs to clean up a hard drive, and was in the middle of reading about registries and what those affected, when he realized he was out of M&M's. This time he didn't even question the propriety of his actions, merely got up and headed into the other room. He was just in time to hear from the TV an update on a game in progress elsewhere, between the Broncos (who were winning) and the Seahawks, and Sano's almost startlingly intense response, "Man, fuck Denver." 

Though Duo complained about the 49ers because they were so close, he'd evidently never bought in much to the real league rivalries, and thus protested now, "Hey, I lived in Denver for, like, three years!" 

The look Sano threw him, which Heero caught because he was surreptitiously watching for it as he bent to retrieve his next supply of M&M's, suggested he was adding up numbers. At the moment it amounted to about fifteen years skilled enough to be looking out for Trowa Barton in Michigan plus enough time to be out of practice in command magic thereafter plus, like, three years in Denver. But all Sano said at this point was, "Well, fuck the Broncos, anyway." 

Duo just laughed. 

Heero returned to the computer and started downloading the first program he planned to try, listened to the disappointment in the next room when the Rams were the first to score, then cocked an ear with interest as two commercial breaks separated only by a brief punt provided plenty of time for conversation. 

His boyfriend wasted no time jumping back onto the subject they'd left hanging before, since he wanted certain details and felt this was the best way to get them: "Seriously, there's no way Trowa's mad at you or anything. Like I said, you'd know." Duo actually felt a little guilty painting this inaccurate picture, as he knew perfectly well that people Trowa found annoying tended to get avoided and ignored by him rather than made active targets of his malice; but he still wanted answers. "I mean, I know there was some kind of... incident? ...at his house that one night...?" 

"Heh... yeah... me and Hajime sorta... had sex..." 

Duo choked loudly on whatever he was eating, and began to cough. Though Sano gave a sheepish laugh as if to express penitence for having caused this inconvenience, there was no feeling of accusation whatsoever in Duo's head; he'd been longing to hear this gossip for weeks, and now it was getting started in an even more interesting fashion than he'd anticipated. Finally he managed, "Seriously? I had no idea that's what it was! Trowa described it as a soap opera, not a porno!" 

Again Sano laughed, and again it sounded chagrined -- but there was, perhaps, a sly, almost smug edge to it as well, as if, though the circumstance _did_ embarrass him, he also felt a touch of pride at having gotten away with something so audacious. "The part he would've overheard was actually all soap opera," he allowed. "The porn didn't start 'til after he left." 

"So you went to yell at Hajime," Duo prompted, amused and eager, "for not telling you where he went, and ended up having drama that ended in sex?" 

"Yeah... yeah, that's pretty much what happened." 

"And now you guys are dating?" 

"Yep. _Finally_." Heero wasn't sure whether Sano knew how much he was teasing Duo by not immediately pouring forth the entire story in all its gory details, but in any case Duo probably deserved it for the manner in which he was planning to make the best possible dramatic use of his own interesting experiences. 

"How long were you guys _not_ dating?" 

"Like, six months," was Sano's surly reply. "Because he's an asshole." 

"Then I can totally see why you're going out with him," Duo replied with mock seriousness. 

"The thing about Hajime..." Sano's statement disintegrated into a frustrated sound as the TV came back on and he apparently gave up describing his boyfriend for now. However, a few minutes later, during a quiet stretch of game where a potential foul was being discussed at length and even the announcers had little to say, Sano got started again with the air of one that has been organizing his thoughts for the last while and is now ready to present. 

"The thing about Hajime is that he's really bad at talking to anyone about anything serious in his own damn life. Like, I feel like getting to know him has been _spywork _this whole time, because he sure as hell doesn't open up about anything about himself that isn't completely shallow." 

Duo was thinking that, amusingly, the very fact Sano was saying this indicated something much the opposite about _him_, as well as that this didn't really explain why Hajime was an asshole because they hadn't been dating for six months. However, more curious than ever though he was, he was prevented from prompting for more details by the game's resumption with the announcement of no penalty. The good news was that it didn't take much longer for Oakland to call a timeout and commercials to reappear. 

Sano hesitated not a whit to continue what was pretty clearly a rant. "Yeah, so I could never figure out whether Hajime was straight or what, because he never lets you know anything about himself if he can help it. Turns out he just isn't really _into_ relationships or something, but guys are fine? I mean--" he laughed a little as he reconsidered his tone and wording-- "_obviously_ guys are fine, but it took me fucking _forever_ to figure that out. I still don't know what his actual orientation is, and I'm _sleeping_ with him now." 

Duo was starting to put together a hazy picture of Sano's relationship with his boyfriend and the leadup thereto, and found it partially pathetic and partially amusing -- and withal even more interesting than he'd been expecting. On his end, Heero was mostly entertained to observe what a gossip his own boyfriend was. 

A sack against Oakland forcing them to punt distracted Duo somewhat, and, though Sano joined him in lamenting the circumstance, it clearly hadn't been enough to distract _him_ from the rant he still hadn't fully vocalized. Heero, continually entertained, wondered if Sano complained about his boyfriend like this to all of his friends. 

"It's like he lives behind these _walls_ that he just doesn't let down for _anyone_, even his fucking _boyfriend_... and then at the same time he has this totally unfair advantage since he can read _my_ mind, so _I've_ had to practice my ass off learning how to not let him hear shit in there so he's not a total dick about it, while at the same time all sorts of stuff about him is still this big fucking secret." 

And now, abruptly, the situation had gone from entertaining to extremely uncomfortable. Because there was no way Duo could hear a description like this without being pricklingly aware just how close it was to a description of Heero. 'Walls,' he was already reflecting, was even the exact term he'd used in his own assessment of Heero back when he'd been trying to figure him out. He recalled something Quatre had said at some point about how nobody had ever been able to get very close to Heero; he recalled his own surprise and happiness, at a later point, in realizing he'd somehow gotten past some of those walls without knowing how he'd done it. 

_You weren't human at the time_, Heero reflected with bitter nostalgia. 

Of course, Duo's thoughts went on -- all at the same moment, really; it was more of that speed of mind Heero had admired so much in the past -- Heero wasn't like that Hajime guy in any other respect, the situations weren't the same, and it wasn't fair to Heero to compare them. But there _were_ walls, and there _was_ an unjust advantage of communication magic. It was close enough. 

And Heero, Duo reflected further with a sinking of heart, had probably picked up on all of these thoughts. 

Heero had stood from his chair almost without realizing what he did, looking around in something like panic. He and Duo were both suddenly agitated and upset, and the only thing he could think to do about it was leave the apartment. Duo probably couldn't keep from having _or_ projecting these thoughts, and Heero couldn't keep from hearing them, so to separate for a little seemed essential. It might also benefit Duo to be free to discuss this with someone in a similar circumstance -- one that was close enough, at any rate, to have prompted this unpleasantness in the first place -- and he would certainly not be able to do so with Heero twenty feet away. 

Hastily Heero went into the living room and, avoiding Duo's eye, looked around somewhat frantically for his car keys. Finding them on the kitchen counter, he made for them with grasping hands and a stiff neck, saying, "I'm going to run get some groceries," as he seized them and turned toward the apartment door. It was a stupid thing to say, since they'd been grocery shopping literally last night -- when Heero had evidently been too distracted by Duo's butt to notice the number of M&M packages he was purchasing -- but Heero had finally come to accept the fact that inventing excuses was not a skill he possessed. 

"OK," said Duo hoarsely. He knew exactly why this was happening. What he didn't know was how to feel about it, and his head was in turmoil. 

Sano had still been speaking when Heero emerged from the hall, but had ceased abruptly at this exchange, and now silence filled the room as Heero plunged out the door; Heero didn't think he was imagining the awkwardness and tension of that silence. What exactly they would talk about in his absence he could not guess, but at least Duo would be safe inside his own head for a while. 

Whether this had been the right choice Heero had no idea, but he still saw no alternative. In nearly as much mental turmoil as that in which he'd left Duo, he made his way out of the apartment building without seeing it very clearly, heading for his car with no intention whatsoever of turning it on just yet. It was outside that he noticed his feet were clad only in socks, which killed whatever intention he'd had left of driving anywhere eventually. He probably wouldn't have been able to come up with any groceries he needed anyway, and would most likely have ended up spending a silly amount of money on items randomly thrown into a shopping basket as he blindly walked the aisles of the store. 

His thoughts were largely incoherent as he sat behind the motionless steering wheel struggling to become and remain calm and rational. Struggling not to feel bitter or annoyed about this. And eventually, perhaps due to the calming, enclosed atmosphere of the car interior or perhaps in the natural course of the passage of time, he did manage to subdue his agitation to a relatively manageable level. He leaned the seat back and tried to relax. That was frankly impossible, but he could at least repeat to himself for a while that he mustn't be unreasonable about this. 

Duo had been through so much -- more than Heero could really comprehend at this point, communication magic notwithstanding. If his response to Heero's abilities seemed like an overreaction, seemed unfair and even unkind, that was because Heero didn't yet understand Duo's frame of mind. Perhaps he would _never_ understand, but that didn't given him the right to be unreasonable, to be unfair and unkind in return. The thought of being unkind to Duo, whom he loved, after everything Duo had already suffered, made him almost sick -- and that feeling must be his strength, must help him remember that Duo was not being unreasonable and that he, too, must not be unreasonable. 

He had neglected to check the time when he left the apartment or began this shoeless vigil, so when he _did_ look he couldn't be sure just how long he'd been out here. In his agitation he felt as if it had been approximately forever, and he longed to go back to Duo and make sure he was all right; but he felt that not only would it be wiser to give his quest for calm and relaxation a little more time and effort, he also knew the game had started at 1:00 and it wasn't even 2:00 yet. He should give them at least through halftime to discuss whatever they were likely to discuss in there. 

It occurred to him that the game, being a local one, must be on the radio somewhere, and that if he could find it, he could gage his timing a little better than by merely watching the clock. So he turned the car halfway on at last and began cycling through stations. When he found what he believed -- and after a few minutes confirmed -- to be what he was looking for, he turned the volume up and attempted to find a comfortable position in which to listen for a while. This endeavor proved anomalously difficult. He'd spent quite a few lunch breaks sitting in the car alongside Duo with no problem, but apparently when Duo was removed from the equation, so was all comfort. Or perhaps that was just the awareness of the _dis_comfort he'd come out here to escape. 

He tried to let himself be distracted, tried to pretend he was an avid Oakland Raiders fan that really cared what was going on and how it would affect the season, but, even adjusting for his indifference to football, this was incredibly hard. He could only muster the mildest interest in the events of the game, and when anything unrelated interrupted to disconnect the tether of his attention, it was next to impossible to think about anything but Duo. He didn't care about the new burger at Carl's Jr., he didn't care about the World Series coverage on this station, and he didn't care how the Patriots were faring against the Jets. He _did_ care about what might be going on in Duo's head right now, and the effect that might have on their relationship. 

Had he actually been an avid Oakland Raiders fan, he must have been disappointed at the score when, about a hundred years later, halftime finally rolled around. He was not cheated of unpleasant feelings, however, since he already felt mummified by sitting still for so long in a place he didn't want to be, listening to content he less than half appreciated, and now he had to remind himself that the plan had always been to wait until _after_ halftime -- no matter how tedious was the radio announcers' talk about names Heero barely recognized and assessing plays he hadn't seen. 

Despite how long it had seemed, in reality it had taken no more than about thirty minutes to get to halftime. Getting _through_ halftime, however, a process whose finite span was dictated by the NFL and the same for every game, felt about ten times longer. Heero was reminded vaguely of the days he'd spent at work attempting to exercise even the smallest measure of patience waiting to go home to the doll he had a crush on. Except that in this instance he didn't even have paying work to distract him -- just a boring halftime show -- and the concern and agitation he felt now was far different from the anticipation and curiosity he'd felt then. 

But just as those long days apart from Duo the doll had each come to an end, so the overlong first half of this damned football game must too come to an end and the second commence. Heero didn't even pause to reassess his situation, decide for sure whether he thought this was a good time to go back in; he simply turned the car off -- and with no slow motions, either -- and headed back into the apartment building. 

He _did_ give some thought to _how_ he should reenter. Would it be better to pretend nothing untoward had happened, despite the total absence of groceries in his hands to bear out the excuse with which he'd left; or should he make it clear that he did not require any statement from Duo at this time but would probably want to talk to him about these events later? How curious was Sano likely to be, and to what extent should Heero humor that curiosity? Well, the former point probably depended most on what Sano and Duo had discussed in Heero's absence, and the answer to the latter was, 'None at all.' What Duo chose to share with his friends was up to him; Heero didn't feel like taking part in it. 

So it was with a hybrid of the proposed attitudes, and a steeling of self to any possible negativity within, that he re-entered the apartment. There, he was infinitely relieved to receive a smile from his boyfriend along with the picked-up reflections that Duo appreciated the privacy Heero had so precipitously and clumsily offered him. 

Whatever the conversation had been about during the bulk of his absence, it was now, for some reason or other, about Hugh Jackman and how hot he was or wasn't. Heero might almost have thought they'd invented the topic at random so as to have something safe to talk about when he returned, but they'd seemed to be in the middle of it when he entered, and they couldn't have known when that would happen. At least he thought they couldn't. 

As Heero moved almost automatically to grab some M&M's, he gave Duo a look he knew could not possibly convey everything -- _I'm glad you seem to be doing OK; it's fine if you guys gossiped about me while I was out there; I hope it helped; we'll talk about it later; I love you_ \-- but that he hoped would get at least a little of it across; and received in return a widening of Duo's smile with a sardonic dimple on one side of the mouth and a reassuring crinkling at the outer corner of each eye that seemed -- Heero liked to think he wasn't imagining it -- to respond, _Yeah, it's fine, we'll talk about it later._ He also caught sight, beyond Duo, of an inquisitive expression on Sano's face. The young exorcist was holding forth on what a perfect Wolverine Hugh Jackman had made, but very obviously couldn't restrain his look of curiosity about Heero's actions and attitude as he did so. 

Heero too was curious, wanting very much to know what they had talked about while he'd agonized in the car, but with the unspoken promise of discussing it with Duo later for his reassurance, he just took his fresh batch of M&M's into the computer room to resume his previous task. It actually seemed a little absurd how relieved he was to be back in here within earshot (and mind-reading range) of Duo, but finding it absurd didn't lessen that relief. 

The Hugh Jackman conversation, which had been taking place over the top of the game anyway, was cut off abruptly when something one of the Rams did caused both Duo and Sano to protest loudly. Evidently a penalty call satisfied them fairly well, for they then fell to discussing the quarterback the Raiders had switched to. 

The atmosphere in the living room seemed identical to that of the first half of the game before snarls had arisen, and this continued or restored ease made Heero wonder even harder what they'd talked about during those forty-five minutes or so in the middle, but he would just have to find out later. At least that lengthy time away had been enough for the program he'd downloaded to run through an entire cycle of cleaning up his hard drive, so now he could reboot the machine and see what effect it might have had. 

The conversation in the living room shifted to how many NFL games each had attended in person, which between them was not an impressive number, and the listening Heero considered that football tickets -- especially when the Raiders had not (he believed) been a particularly good team for several years -- could not be terribly expensive and might make an excellent gift for his boyfriend at some point. 

The next commercial break was spent discussing whether or not the Rams' offensive line was supporting Steven Jackson the way it should after some comment of the announcer's that at least Sano seemed to take issue with; and, curious though he still was, Heero's attention waned. The computer was taking just as tediously long as ever to boot up, and he wanted to know why. He did chuckle quietly a little later when, a touchdown having been scored and a lot of hugging and butt-patting apparently having been featured onscreen, Duo and Sano agreed happily that football was a really gay sport at times, but mostly he was focusing on the computer and its issues. 

After another commercial break's worth of football talk that Heero didn't really listen to, however, and when the announcers, upon returning, had started teasing a fellow sports analyst with pictures of his shag and mullet hairstyles of decades past, Duo caught Heero's interest again by commenting with intense disgust, "I don't even know what people were _thinking _in the 80's with that kind of hair. Best decade ever not to go out in public much!" 

"OK." Sano had evidently caught the reminiscent tone in Duo's expression of hirsute disapprobation, and couldn't restrain himself any longer. "How old actually are you?" 

Duo muted the television for commercials before answering in a tone so studiedly casual that, to Heero at least, it stood out like a conversational beacon, "Hundred and eleven." 

Here was the first instance in Heero's presence of Sano's thoughts breaking past their usual restraints -- restraints that, Heero now believed, had originally been put in place purely to prevent Hajime from reading Sano's mind because there was at least a little of the same thing going on between those two as there was between Heero and Duo. But now Heero could easily detect the intense shock and curiosity in Sano's head, even from the other room, as well as the sudden flood of theories that overtook him in a chaotic shambles. It never occurred to Sano to disbelieve Duo or take his words as a joke; he merely considered somewhat incoherently how it could have come to pass. 

And at the same time, of course, he was expressing his astonishment and inquisitiveness aloud to his very tickled companion. "Fuck! A hundred and fucking _what_? _How?_ Did Trowa Barton let you in on his big secret, or what?" 

Heero knew very precisely the grin that was on Duo's face now, and the exact degree to which Duo would have preferred to repress it in order to maintain the casualness he thought would play better into his desired delivery. And Heero had to smile too; even if part of today's get-together had led to some unpleasant feelings, at least Duo had this to revel in. 

"I _was_ Trowa's big secret, actually," he was saying. "If I wasn't immortal for a while, he wouldn't have been either." 

"No fucking way." Despite the profanity, Sano's reaction to this was clearly positive. "You _can't_ tell me you're stronger than Trowa fucking Barton." 

Duo laughed. He was having so much fun now. Heero's smile, in the other room, had not diminished. "No, I can't! And I don't have crazy fans all over the place either!" 

"I am not a crazy fan," Sano protested. "I'm a totally normal fan. I have a _friend_ who's a crazy fan, though, and he's going to flip the fuck out when I tell him this. Am I allowed to tell him this? What am I telling him, actually?" 

Now Duo was laughing throughout much of what Sano had to say. "I don't really know how much Trowa'd like you to tell your crazy friend, but I'm guessing 'nothing.' He's pretty private about this stuff." 

"What stuff? How were you guys immortal?" Sano's tone was buoyantly demanding, and Heero wondered if he was bouncing up and down on the sofa as he said this. His thoughts, however, after that initial burst of wonder that had broken down his barriers, were becoming more difficult to hear as the walls rebuilt themselves. This was interesting to observe, and somewhat promising in relation to Duo's tendency to project everything that crossed his mind. 

Finally Duo presented the meat of the story. "Trowa accidentally cast a curse on me in 1923 that made me a really sucky sort of immortal for 87 years. We only just managed to break it this May." 

"Holy shit! Does that -- no, don't turn that back on yet!" It seemed as if Duo, in his amusement, fumbled the remote, for it was a couple of seconds before the reinstated TV sounds disappeared again. "_What_ really sucky kind of immortal? And why would that make -- I know jack-shit about curses." 

"There's always a kind of backlash to a curse, so the person who cast it is part of it until it's broken. I couldn't die because I was made of plastic, so Trowa couldn't die that whole time either. He didn't even age." 

"Made of _plastic_?" Sano echoed, and it was clear that any frustration Duo had felt earlier at Sano not pouring out gossipy details all at once was being amply repaid. 

"Yeah, I was a doll." There was a pause during which some facial expression must have asked the next question, for eventually Duo added, "Like a Barbie doll? Obviously I wasn't an _actual_ Barbie doll, but I was that same size. I could wear Ken clothes." 

At this statement Sano gave an incredulous laugh. "That sounds like... not a lot of fun." 

"Oh, you don't even have any _idea_." 

Duo began to expound, with no great organization of topic, upon his trials as a doll over the many decades -- how he'd lacked most physical sensation, the limitations to his personal movement, how he'd been considered a child's plaything and passed from hand to hand with no stability of home or relationship. The sound on the television remained muted, and no thought of football crossed Duo's mind; Heero, listening, wondered whether those two even remembered there was a game going on in front of them. Though admittedly the doll story was far more fascinating. 

Of course the breaking of the curse had to be touched upon in greater detail as well, and Heero could tell Duo felt awkward talking about Heero's part knowing Heero heard every word and probably more but wasn't actually involved in the conversation. Hoping to assuage this, Heero got up and went into the next room under the pretense (and with the actual intention) of getting more M&M's. 

"So of course everyone else who worked there," Duo was saying, "wondered what _that_ was all about." 

"Yeah, I just fucking _bet_!" Sano chortled. 

"Actually that's an understatement." Heero made sure to keep his tone light despite the sardonic nature of his comment, just to be sure Duo knew he didn't mind the conversation being about him more or less in his absence. "People were visiting my desk nonstop for almost the entire month just to see Duo." He smiled at his boyfriend as he lifted his fresh handful of candy, then turned to head back to the computer room. 

More relaxed, Duo went on about the curse-breaking month. Heero, having been present for its telling once before in different company, already knew it made a pretty good tale -- more engaging, at least, than trying to get his computer to run faster. And when it transitioned to a discussion of Trowa's powers and the artifact -- which Sano, of course, was somewhat familiar with after having extracted its leftover energy from Quatre just above a week ago -- the talk did not become any less interesting. 

The way Duo told the story -- even the manner in which he referred to the misery of being a doll and the long years of suffering -- made it seem light and funny, as if his tribulations had been no more than the 'pain in the ass' Sano remarked they sounded like, tedious and inconvenient and annoying rather than harrowing and traumatizing. Of the gregarious Duo Heero found this a little surprising, but at the same time thought it wise: Duo and Sano probably weren't close enough yet for that kind of pain to be shared, no matter how (possibly inappropriately) open Sano was about his own relationships and experiences. 

And Sano _was_ open. Despite not being able to read his mind at this point, Heero judged him completely straightforward when he eventually remarked, "Shit. And I thought _I_ was special just because I was possessed by a ghost one time." 

Now it was Duo's turn to be surprised. "What? That sounds pretty special to me! Aren't ghosts super rare?" 

"Yeah, but not as rare as people who get turned into fucking _dolls_ and then live forever!" 

"Hey, the curse is broken," Duo protested. "I'm not going to live forever. I wouldn't want to!" 

"My point is that your experience was really... one-of-a-kind, you know? I was thinking it was pretty cool that I got to do something most people will never do, but _you_\--" 

Duo interrupted with, "Hey, you're supposed to _not_ be a crazy fan, remember? Mine was _not_ cool." 

Sano laughed. "Yeah. Right. Sorry. I wouldn't want to trade or anything." 

"But how did you manage to get possessed by a ghost? You mean a real ghost, right?" 

"Yep, a real ghost." Sano seemed pleased with himself, and Heero believed he'd really meant that he wouldn't want to trade, despite probably not fully understanding how not-cool Duo's experience had been. "This poor guy got killed by -- it's really complicated." Sano paused for a moment as if considering the best way to relate the information, and Duo waited eagerly for the story. Today was turning out to be a much more compelling and involved meeting with the exorcist than he'd expected, and the fun aspects of it were balancing out the uncomfortable pretty well. 

"OK, someone was being threatened," Sano resumed. "Did you know we have an actual yakuza right here in town?" Duo didn't seem to know the word, and Sano said, probably in response to a confused expression, "You know, Japanese mafia?" 

"Oh, is that the real way you say it?" Duo sounded enlightened. Heero's laugh wasn't quite loud enough for them to hear down the hall. 

"Yeah, we've got one. And there was this... person... being threatened by this yakuza -- some of them -- and had to kill someone for them to save someone else from being killed." 

"O...K..." Duo thought he'd worked through that statement fairly well, but wondered why Sano was being so vague. Heero guessed it was because murder and other criminal activity had been involved and Sano didn't want to implicate anyone. In this context it was probably even a client confidentiality thing. 

"So this guy who got killed really wanted to make sure the person who killed him knew he wasn't mad about it. He understood they did it under duress to save someone else's life." 

"Wow, that's really big of the guy." Duo was thinking uncomfortably of the circumstance as he imagined it. "I don't think _I'd_ be looking out for the person who killed me like that." 

Heero wondered whether that was true. Duo had, after all, always been looking out for Trowa, who had, if not _killed_ him, done about the next best thing. He remembered Duo telling Trowa that he'd forgiven him 'back in, like, the forties.' It might take some time for Duo to forgive, depending on the provocation, but he would probably always do so. Proportionally speaking, the twenty or so years that had passed before he'd managed to forgive Trowa for cursing him might translate into a matter of weeks to 'forgive' Heero for being able to read his surface-level thoughts. It was an unexpectedly reassuring idea. 

"Well..." Sano sounded a little uncomfortable right alongside Duo, though probably for different reasons. "I'm... really oversimplifying here. The point is that he really, _really_ wanted to talk to the person who killed him, which is why he became a ghost, but he couldn't talk to them because they weren't necrovisual." 

"So you volunteered, like a badass, to help him." 

The grin was audible in Sano's tone as he replied, "Yeah, something like that." 

"Was it scary? What does it feel like?" 

"It was pretty easy, actually. I mean, I collapsed afterwards, but at the time it wasn't a lot of work for me. You sort of get... pushed back... like you're in another room... The ghost just sort of takes over, and _you_ don't really have to worry about anything that's going on. Actually it took some effort if I _wanted_ to know what was going on." 

Heero was reminded by this description of the Imperius Curse, but Duo hadn't read Harry Potter yet and would not, of course, make the same connection. 

"So afterwards," Sano went on, "a lot of the stuff he said I had a hard time remembering, even though he was talking through my actual mouth." 

"Which I guess didn't matter so much, since it wasn't you he was talking to," Duo speculated, "but I bet it was pretty weird anyway." 

"Yeah, it was like some movie I watched forever ago... or more like some movie someone else watched in another room, but over and over and over again so it's like, 'I _should_ remember this really well, but I don't.' Or maybe--" 

At this point, both Sano and Duo interrupted the meandering description to give the first indication since the long-term muting that they were still aware of the television. Their sudden, simultaneous reactions to the body-slamming of a Ram by and over the shoulder of a Raider were loud and enthusiastic; apparently some things were every bit as cool as the details of ghostly possession. Heero gave a rueful smile and shake of head as he listened to them go on about it for a bit. 

He'd set the hard drive to defragmenting, a process that would undoubtedly take longer than the rest of the football game and probably Sano's visit. He sat back in his chair and ate some M&M's as he listened for further interesting conversation in the next room. 

Eventually the body-slam evidently ceased to engross, for when the sounds of exultation had faded Duo finally asked, "So did you get to find out all sorts of interesting stuff about 'Heaven' or whatever?" 

"You know, _I _was more interested in getting the guy to move on, because he was haunting me for weeks and weeks and it was a pain in the ass. But Hajime had a long talk with him about that kind of shit, and I don't think he really learned all that much. I mean, somebody becomes a ghost by _not_ going to the afterlife, so he couldn't really know all that much to tell Hajime about." 

"But there _is_ an afterlife of some sort." 

"There's _something_." By the sound of Sano's voice Heero was reminded of Duo's 'shrug' tone, and was given to believe that this subject didn't interest the exorcist much. "Hajime said the ghost said something was 'pulling him' or something. And I know a good medium who likes dead people better than he likes living people. So it's not like people stop existing when they move on... but that's all I can tell you." 

"Well, that's good to know, I guess." Now Duo sounded unusually pensive, and it seemed that most of what interested him about this lay somewhat deeper in his mind than the superficial level Heero could pick up on. "I never really thought about it before, but I guess some kinds of magic kinda answer some questions about how the world works..." 

"Not the really big questions, though," Sano shrugged. "You still have to decide for yourself about God and shit." 

"Right," Duo snorted. "_God_." There was an unaccustomed bitterness and derision to his tone that made Heero prick up his ears even more than he yet had. 

Sano, for his part, chuckled, with just a hint of the same sound to his voice. And Heero found himself slightly jealous that, however little they'd actually touched on the topic, they were in there discussing something _he_ and Duo had never really talked about. He could guess, but he didn't know precisely what had caused that tone in his boyfriend's voice -- but Sano seemed to understand it. Which of course was a normal and acceptable thing for a friend to do, though Heero _had_ just been thinking Duo wasn't close enough to this one yet to be sharing a number of personal feelings. But maybe Heero's ideas of closeness were less than entirely applicable here and in many social situations. He tried to quash his jealousy. 

There was little else to incite it. After the _nearly_ shared feelings on God, enough moments of silence passed that apparently both men in the living room thought it appropriate for the television sound to come back on. And though at first they didn't seem much given to discussing the game or even reacting audibly to it -- in fact, Heero could hear Duo in his head turning over the information he'd received today -- eventually, gradually, they seemed to grow more and more engrossed. By the time the two-minute warning rolled around, they were enthusiastically discussing football again, assessing the Raiders' eventually satisfactory performance and the near guarantee of winning at this point. 

What currently worried Heero most was that Sano might want to hang out for some indefinite period after the game talking football or curses or possession or whatever. He chided himself for being so selfish, for wanting the guy out of the way so intensely, but that didn't change the feeling of pre-emptive annoyance at the basically hypothetical thought of not being able to talk to Duo about personal things for so much longer. He would never have guessed Sano's appearance here could possibly raise such emotional topics that would need to be covered after his departure. 

The level of celebration when the Raiders took a knee and the game ended at 16-14 was no more than expected, and there remained only the question of when, now the purpose of hanging out was fulfilled, Sano would get up and leave and Heero could have a nice private chat with Duo. And at first it did seem that what Heero feared would come to pass, for both speakers in the living room sounded relaxed and complacent, as if ending their conversation and their continual snacking on leftover Chinese food was the last thing on their minds. And though after canvassing the Raiders' prospects for a while they went back to discussing magical experiences, a topic not entirely uncompelling, Heero couldn't rouse the same interest within himself for eavesdropping as he had before. 

Every bit as anxious and impatient as he'd been in the car around halftime, he sat drumming his fingers almost audibly at the computer desk, wishing Sano gone, longing for the intimacy of aloneness and a conversation that would mean a lot more to him than this one did. Eventually he started responding to every statement Sano made with a semi-sarcastic but silent response such as, _"Yes, that's a lot of fun; why don't you go think about it at home?"_ or, _"Why don't you go tell your boyfriend that? I'm sure **he'll** be interested,"_ or, _"Don't you have homework to do?"_

And at that point he heard Sano say, "Well, I got homework to do, so I better get out of here." And Heero, recalling what he was and what Sano supposedly was, blushed at the thought that the statements he'd intended as entirely silent and private could possibly have gone out and been heard. No worse than rude they might have been, but still he wouldn't have said any of them aloud. Attempting some sort of apology would be _far_ too awkward, though, so he planned to stay firmly put in this room until Sano had gone. 

The process of Sano getting gone was progressing apace. Often with Duo, a goodbye conversation was really just a continuation of the previous conversation in a different, last-minute-addendum sort of tone, so technically they were discussing football yet, but Heero could sense the goodbye coming. Eventually, though still on about quarterbacks and stats and such, they even removed from the sofa and toward the door. Restraining any further sarcastic remarks, Heero listened intently until finally he heard actual goodbyes and the opening and closing of the egress. 

Then he took a deep breath and stood. It was funny how much he could long for something he doubted could be terribly enjoyable. At least there was still approximately a ton of almond M&M's waiting for him out there. 

Duo was waiting for him out there too, staring straight into the hall from which Heero emerged as if, though lacking any mind-reading abilities of his own, he knew perfectly well what Heero was thinking now. Wordlessly they moved into first a hug and then a kiss, then separated; Duo went to flop back down onto the couch, Heero to move the M&M's bowl onto the end table whence it could be easily reached from the spot beside Duo. 

Mostly empty Styrofoam boxes of expired Chinese food stood open here and there on the floor in an arc between sofa and television, and Coke cans were taking up more space than Heero would have thought a six-pack could account for. It would all need to be cleaned up... but not yet. For now he just sat in awkward silence next to Duo and ate M&M's. He was starting to feel he'd had a few too many M&M's today. 

Duo was reflecting that, if Sano's conversation about magic and magical experiences was going to lead to uncomfortable topics and panicky tension between him and Heero, maybe Sano, harmlessly fun and amusing as he seemed, wasn't the best person to be inviting to the apartment. 

With great effort, Heero restrained himself from responding to this, waiting for Duo to bring it up aloud so they could hold the conversation properly. But Duo's thoughts then shifted to how uncomfortable it _still_ was to be aware of Heero reading his mind, and with a sigh and a bit of a frown he said, "I'm starting to recognize the look you get when you're hearing something in my head but not saying anything about it." 

And there it was again: the unjust resentment. _All_ Duo disliked was the combination of Heero's ability with his own lack of control, but it sure sounded as if he was complaining about something Heero actively chose to do. Heero didn't quite know what to say, since much of what he was thinking would have come out sounding bitter and combative if he'd attempted to arrange it in words. 

When Heero thus remained silent, Duo continued, "So you might as well just say whatever you wanted to say. About Sano, I mean." 

Struggling to put unpleasant thoughts behind him, Heero did as he was told. "I don't think you need to keep Sano away. Stuff like that's probably going to keep coming up until we get this fixed, so there's no reason to cut yourself off from something that will make you happy." 

"It doesn't make me happy to see you freaking out." 

"It's... OK, though." Heero dropped his head onto the couch cushion behind him, unwilling for the moment to look at Duo. "You weren't being unreasonable or anything..." 

"But why should you have to hear that kind of thing at all? It's not fair!" Clearly Duo meant this was unfair for _both_ of them, but the reasons he felt this way that flashed across the surface of his mind were so tangled that Heero could barely understand any of it. But he definitely caught a hint of the involuntary mistrust he'd sensed in Duo before; Duo obviously felt, whether he wanted to or not, that Heero spying on his private thoughts -- even if Heero received his own punishment in so doing -- was a big part of the unfairness of the situation. 

Heero wondered whether if, instead of their powers being one-sided, they could each read the other's mind, all these problems would be alleviated... or doubled. He was certainly glad that just at the moment he was able to hide his resentment at Duo's feelings. He felt something that echoed Duo's words somewhat, though -- why should he have to feel this resentment at all? Why should this situation exist? It seemed pointless and foolish. 

Duo took a deep, frustrated breath. "Anyway, I hope you don't mind I told Sano about -- a little bit about it. I didn't want to -- I mean, it's funny the way he talks about his boyfriend, but it seems pretty awful too, and I didn't want to be like that..." 

Hastily, looking over again at where Duo was staring down at fidgeting fingers in his lap, Heero assured him, "No, that's fine. That's why I left -- so you could talk about it with someone who might understand." 

Duo nodded. "I just told him I didn't like you being able to read my thoughts either, but I haven't figured out how to _control_ my thoughts to keep them private." 

Heero mirrored the nod. He appreciated Duo's restraint in this matter, agreeing that, while he truly didn't mind Duo discussing their issues with someone that might understand, and while there was a certain entertainment value to the way Sano talked about Hajime in the latter's absence, he wouldn't like to think Duo was quite _that_ open about _him_. 

"And he said Hajime can probably help, at least a little. If I hang out with Sano and Hajime's around, Hajime can let me know every time I'm projecting thoughts, so then I can get a feel for how to... not do that." 

It seemed that Sano, when presenting this informal and rather uncertain-sounding plan, had done it as casually as he did most things, and Duo, though he'd accepted the offer and thanked him, hadn't given it much real thought at that time. Now, in repeating the idea to Heero, though his words had been somewhat listless with lack of investment, he began to reflect upon it properly at last... and, in so doing, awakened in himself that remarkable optimism that carried him through so many trials. All of a sudden he was considering the plan in greater detail and with a growing feeling that it was a really good one. And abruptly he was filled with a hope that was easily -- indeed, almost overwhelmingly -- detectable in his head. 

He didn't need, after all, full and proper communication training working one-on-one with someone devoted to teaching him everything a non-communicator could possibly master of that branch of magic; he just needed to learn how to stop shouting out his thoughts all the time. And if he could do that without inconveniencing Heero, without constantly reminding Heero of this problem, that would be great. _And_ if he could do it while making a better friend of a sympathetic fellow magician? It sounded perfect. 

Duo's optimism was catching, and in addition to simply feeling better about the entire situation, Heero was, almost against his better judgment, inclined also to think this a very good plan. In fact, beyond some possibility of jealousy on his part that was in no way a deciding factor (nor even something he would ever bring up), he couldn't see anything wrong with the idea except for one particular. "I don't know Hajime well," he said carefully, disinclined to mention this at all in the face of Duo's (and his!) sudden optimism but feeling he must, "but is he really likely to want to help you with this?" Heero specifically remembered one conversation in which Hajime had made it pretty clear, without actually saying so, that he wasn't interested in teaching random people about communication magic. 

The grin Duo's mouth spread into was as infectious as his optimism. "Sano said he's sure he can convince him." 

And Heero, grinning back, had the sudden amusing mental image of Sano and Duo watching football over at wherever Sano and Hajime lived (in Heero's imagination it was a mirror image of this apartment), with Hajime sitting in the next room at the computer totally disinterested in the game but occasionally poking his head out to let Duo know he was projecting. There would probably even be Chinese food in Styrofoam all over the floor... but certainly no almond M&M's. 

"It sounds great, then," he said. 

Duo reached for Heero's hand. He was reflecting on how much he wanted to get this problem solved, and Heero thought Duo's determination toward that end was even greater than his. It seemed to sting Duo even more that he felt this irrational mistrust and irritation than it did Heero to be the victim thereof. But Duo was also still filled with hope and cheer at the thought of a plan that might -- that he was sure _would_ \-- help. And in light of that, though he knew it must be impossible to banish completely from his mind an issue so recurring and provocative, he wanted to try to think about something else. So he said, "You know what we haven't done in a while? Read Oz." 

That was true. Though they'd read far less together since the curse broke, they _had_ managed to get through a few more installments of the Oz series... but they'd finished the latest one in August and never started the next. And beyond an inherently entertaining and bonding experience, pressing onward would be an excellent method of distraction from anything they might not want to think about -- allowing them to share reactions and opinions about story and characters that, though casual and perhaps frivolous, were genuine and often reflected deeper feelings. 

It occurred to Heero, as he considered this suggestion on how they should spend their next few hours, that perhaps Duo's growing autonomy, for all Duo wasn't as sure of it yet as he would like to be, was to some extent the source of his optimism. As a doll, he couldn't have had much he could use to reassure himself and maintain his sanity, and therefore his optimism, though a crucial resource, couldn't have been more than blind, unsubstantiated, ephemeral. But now, as a human free to move and choose, making money and again a part of society in a meaningful way, his optimism could be based in the knowledge that he had the personal power to effect change in his own life -- that things could be better because he could _work_ to _make_ them better. Even when his personal power had nothing to do with the situation in question, when he seemed every bit as powerless to deal with some problem as he would have been as a doll in that same situation, the mere knowledge of how much more effective he was overall must boost his optimism regardless of the specific circumstances. 

And at the moment, when he had a plan for the future and a plan for the present, it was no surprise he was beginning to feel unstoppable and almost ecstatically cheerful. 

"You're right," Heero said, smiling and squeezing Duo's hand. "And we only have four books left, I think." 

"Which one's next?" 

"I think it's The Lost Princess." Heero rose and pulled Duo after him. 

"Ooh, sounds like more Ozma stuff." Duo was very fond of Ozma. "Or... maybe not, if she's lost." 

Heero, who couldn't quite remember what happened in this particular book, said nothing to confirm or deny, only pulled Duo in a stumbling sort of near-dance across the minefield of food boxes and empty soda cans that was the living room floor toward the computer room and the bookshelves. 

"It'll probably still be awesome either way," Duo added cheerfully as they went, demonstrating yet again his admirable, semi-inexplicable, to some extent sharable, always wonderful power of, even in the face of frustration and disappointment, becoming and remaining happy.


	224. After-Dinner Brandy

"I was born on August 22, 1898." Trowa sat straight in his seat on the sofa, appearing neither relaxed nor excessively stiff. There was often, Bernard had noticed, a formality to Trowa's speech and bearing that he had to admit he liked in spite of everything he feared he _dis_liked about this young man. 

Well, 'young man' wasn't exactly the right term, was it? "1898?" he echoed in surprise, brows raised, setting down his glass and staring. Yet another entry in the catalog of claims he wasn't sure he believed. 

Trowa nodded. "I was born in Greilicks, Michigan in 1898, but we moved almost immediately to Traverse City, so I don't remember anything about where I was born." 

Quatre, seated next to Trowa on the sofa opposite his parents in their armchairs, looked up from his own brandy -- he took it with soda, the way his mother did -- and over at his boyfriend. He seemed to find something significant about that statement, but said nothing. 

"My mother's name was Sinead Barton," Trowa went on. He smiled as he reminisced -- a very distant smile that almost made him seem as old as he claimed to be. "She had curly red hair, and freckles just like these." He gestured at his own face. "People looked at her and heard her name and automatically considered her Irish, which made her the subject of discrimination everywhere she went. She was third-generation Irish-American, and had a thick Detroit accent, but that never helped her find work. She found it very frustrating." 

"I can imagine!" Catharine agreed. Clearly she believed all of this far more than Bernard did, and now felt active sympathy for the unfortunate predicament in which the woman described had supposedly found herself at the turn of the century. 

"I didn't understand at the time, and as an adult I was never a victim of racism myself, but years later I remembered the complaints I overheard as a child, and realized how things must have been for her. I thought a lot about my mother later in life -- more than I ever did when I was with her, sadly." 

Quatre, sipping his drink, still said nothing, but he looked very interested and perhaps a bit concerned. Bernard wondered if Trowa had been as reticent and dishonest with his boyfriend as he had been with his boyfriend's parents. Was this all news to Quatre as well? 

"My father's name was Walter Young. Ironically, though he was an _actual_ immigrant -- from Germany, where his name was Jung -- he had things a lot easier than my mother did. Even more ironic to think that my mother was refused work because people labeled her a lazy drunkard, when that was exactly what my father truly was. He could find work easily, but he rarely ever did. 

"He was often in debt. I think that's why we moved so soon after I was born: he knew he could never pay the doctor's bills. I also think he must have been a charming man when he wanted to, or else he could never have convinced people to give him credit in the first place. He could never have convinced my mother to live with him, or stay with him for so long. He was certainly never charming to me, though." 

Again Trowa's expression went distant, this time with no smile. Whatever Bernard did or did not believe, he recognized the genuine memory of old woes, the revelation of wounds long since scarred over but never forgotten. 

And Quatre seemed distressed. He set down his glass on the end table and reached for Trowa's free hand with both of his. "You don't have to tell us about him." His tone was earnest, quiet, and concerned. 

"It's part of the story," Trowa replied, just as quietly. 

"But you started the story a lot earlier than you really had to. You don't have to force yourself to talk about things like that." 

"But I know you've wanted to know." 

"Yes, but..." Quatre sounded reluctant. Clearly he _did_ want to know -- and this seemed to indicate Trowa had only withheld, not lied about this information -- but worried this might not be the right time to find out. "I don't want you to think you have to tell me until you're ready." 

Gently, ruefully, Trowa smiled. "It's been over a century, and I'm aging again. I'm not sure how much longer I can take." 

Quatre stared with lowered brows for a long moment, and nobody in the room said a word; his parents awaited the outcome of this little interlude. Finally he returned Trowa's smile, and his was startlingly identical in its softness and regret. "If you're sure..." 

"Quatre." Both Trowa's tone and expression suddenly held an edge of reproof. 

In response, Quatre laughed sheepishly as he said, "Sorry." This must be some kind of running issue between them; Bernard found it a little odd, but didn't inquire. 

"It's all right." Trowa lifted the hand of Quatre's that still held his, and evidently applied some pressure. Then he looked away from his boyfriend and back at his boyfriend's parents. "Please excuse the interruption. Quatre is concerned because I haven't told many people about this." 

"So we see," Bernard allowed, not unkindly -- though his sympathy had been drawn out more by his son's admirable sense of charity and consideration than by anything on Trowa's part. "Go on."

Trowa did so, bluntly. "My father was abusive. He would often come home drunk, shout at my mother and me, throw things, break things, hit us if we were careless enough to get close to him... From as early as I can remember, I feared and hated him." 

"I'm so sorry," Catharine said. 

Trowa shook his head, sipped his brandy, and remarked abstractedly, "It wasn't as bad as it could have been. He never bothered trying to make himself pleasant to me, so I had no mixed feelings about him; I was never conflicted in how I saw him; it was a very straightforward situation. Many abused children are in much worse circumstances." 

Bernard didn't know how to react to this. He had very little experience with abuse or its aftermath, and Trowa's calm, distant statements made it even harder to know how to feel about what he described. Bernard _did_ recognize, however, his own creep toward belief again, exactly like that evening at Trowa's house. The delivery brought it on, really: despite how incredible much of this was, Trowa's solemn demeanor and the perfectly authentic-seeming emotion behind his words -- exactly what you might expect from someone assessing the behavior of his abusive father over a hundred years prior -- was subtly, perhaps insidiously convincing. 

"I mentioned he didn't work much," Trowa went on at last. "Usually he sent us out -- a stigmatized woman and a very young child doing whatever we could to scrape up a little money -- and we all lived hand-to-mouth, very poor and uncertain, most of the time. Occasionally he _would_ get up and do some real work, but he would spend most of what he made on drink." He lifted his glass and stared contemplatively at what liquid remained in it. "Because of that, though I like the taste, I've never drunk much in my life, and only _been_ drunk once or twice in all these years." 

Quatre had drawn in a surprised, unhappy breath as Trowa said this, and now remarked, "I'm sorry... I didn't know..." 

"It's all right." Again Trowa squeezed Quatre's hand, which he'd yet to let go. "I was more overwhelmed and emotional that time than really drunk anyway." 

Quatre said nothing, only nodded with a slight frown. Bernard wondered what this referred to, and whether it would come up during the course of what seemed destined to be a _very_ long story. 

"My mother," Trowa continued, "always seemed happy to get away from my father, even knowing what kind of treatment she was likely to find out in the city. And I..." He sighed. "This is the part I'm truly ashamed to admit. I hated her too. Not as much as I hated my father, but I couldn't forgive her for always going back to him at the end of the day. I couldn't understand why she did it, and I thought it meant she was weak and stupid. What's more, because _I_ suffered whenever I was at home, I thought it meant she was cruel. 

"Much of my childhood is a blur; I don't remember at all how I felt about many things, and I have only general impressions about others. But this I remember clearly -- how I felt about my mother -- maybe because, unlike the rest of it, I gave it a lot of thought in later years. Eventually I realized she probably stayed with my father because she felt she would have even less chance of supporting herself and me if she left. The world had taught her she couldn't make it on her own, and even if he didn't do much to support her, I'm sure she felt more secure with him than without him." 

"And it's never easy," Catharine put in sadly, "for an abused woman to leave her abuser. Men like that make _sure_ the women they abuse think they can't make it on their own. And if he could be charming, as you guessed, he undoubtedly had other ways to make her stay as well." 

"I realized that too." Trowa gave a pained nod. "It took many years, but eventually I was able to look back on my mother with a more accurate... well, I'll never know how accurate my hindsight is." 

"You must have lost her," Catharine speculated, "if you were never able to find out for certain." 

"I _could_ have found out for certain. As an adult, I could have looked for her, especially when I started to practice magic. And eventually, when I knew she must be dead, I could have found a medium to contact her spirit for me... but I chose not to. I think part of me didn't want to know the truth, because what if I discovered she'd stayed with my father indefinitely? What if she'd eventually been killed by him? 

"It's one of... _many_ things I regret in my life. And I believe, if my more forgiving and understanding thoughts about her had developed all at once, I _would_ have tried to find her again. But my mental transition was a gradual process, over the course of many years, and by the time I was solid in my awareness of what a victim she was and how she had probably tried to protect me, I was caught up in... other concerns." He sighed, and Bernard could easily see how much he regretted the choice of omission he'd made supposedly so many decades ago. 

"Could you maybe find a medium now?" Quatre wondered. 

"I... probably could." Trowa's lips curled down in a pensive expression, as if this idea had never occurred to him and he was therefore only just contemplating its implications. "Those other concerns, of course, are all wrapped up now..." He seemed to ponder for several moments, and finally shook his head. "I'll have to think about that. Anyway..." He took a deep breath, readying himself for further narration. "In the summer of 1906, I ran away from my parents." 

"You would have been seven years old!" Catharine exclaimed in an almost protesting tone. 

With a faint smile, Trowa nodded his agreement. "It's a miracle I'm alive today, for more than one reason. More than once I came close to starving, or freezing to death in a Michigan winter. But at first it wasn't too difficult. I hitched a ride out of Traverse on a train; we used to do that a lot back then. I didn't know where I was going, and didn't even learn the name of the next city for weeks after I arrived; I just wanted to get away. As a seven-year-old, I assumed my parents would be coming after me, without considering how difficult it would be to determine which direction I'd gone and then to find me on the streets of another large town... or how disinterested _one_ of them must be about what had happened to me. For months I believed they must be just around the corner looking for me, and I think that paranoia may have carried somewhat into my adulthood." 

Now Quatre smiled faintly too, apparently in agreement. 

"As a defense mechanism against their finding me, I abandoned my name. It didn't make much of a difference in my life, since I was such a vagabond anyway, but I thought it was a clever trick to keep my parents off my trail. I lived as a homeless, nameless kid eating a lot of stolen meals for a few months -- I don't remember exactly how long -- before I met Duo." 

"Duo?" echoed Bernard. "Heero's boyfriend?" Surely Trowa wouldn't claim Duo too was over a hundred years old? And yet how many people could there be, even within the entire last century, with that unusual name? 

"The same," replied Trowa with a nod. "He's about six months younger than I am. At the time he was living in an overcrowded orphanage." 

With a sly smile Catharine put in, "To clarify, this is the same Duo who told Bernard off at your house?" 

"Did he?" Quatre sounded both amused and chagrined. 

"Duo is very loyal," Trowa said somewhat apologetically. 

Bernard tried not to stiffen up, or give any sign of disapproval, at his wife's playful remark. The conversation in Trowa's house had not been pleasant, but he wouldn't necessarily call Duo's words 'telling him off.' He did wonder, though, with some bitterness that still lingered, why, if Trowa and Duo were contemporaries, they couldn't date each other and leave Heero to Quatre. 

Trowa went on with his story. "Duo and I became friends, and he invited me to come live at the orphanage." Fondly he added, "I don't think he actually had the authority to do that, though if I had joined him, I don't know that the overworked employees would even have noticed one additional child. I had no interest in living wall-to-wall with other children who didn't get as much to eat as I did by my own wits, and instead I convinced Duo to leave the orphanage and join me on the streets." 

"You're a bad influence," said Quatre with a grin. Bernard worried about the extent to which this might be true, and believed his wife felt the same. 

"We were better off together," Trowa protested, "and it was one less mouth for the orphanage to feed." He smiled as he seemed belatedly to realize Quatre had been teasing him, and added, "As we got older, we were able to do more real work, and steal less, and even eventually rent a room." 

"I remember hearing Duo talk about some of this." 

"Duo convinced me it was safe to start using a name again. Originally mine was based on the old word 'trow,' from the German 'trauen' -- and now you've heard all the German I speak -- but Duo suggested I change the pronunciation to what it is now so I could keep the name I was used to without worrying about my parents finding me by it." 

"That's so interesting," said Quatre. 

"Of course I needed a last name too," Trowa went on with an acknowledging nod, "and I've never been quite sure why I chose to retain my mother's last name; I was, after all, still bitter toward her at the time. I suppose it was more a sign of rejection of my father than acceptance of my mother. But I kept it, and became Trowa Barton, which I never changed." 

Quatre chuckled. "_The_ Trowa Barton." 

"Yes," Trowa agreed with a roll of eyes. 

"What does that mean?" asked Catharine. 

"That comes later," Quatre informed his mother knowingly. 

Bernard stood. "More brandy for anyone?" Uncertain how he felt about what had been disclosed so far, or about Trowa in general, he thought further drinks were required to get through the rest of this. His wife and son both accepted the offer, but Trowa, unsurprisingly given what he'd said earlier, declined. Bernard moved to the sideboard to mix two drinks and pour himself a neat third. 

Courteous as usual, whatever else he might be, Trowa waited for Bernard's return to his chair before continuing the story. In the interim, Quatre asked, "Have you seen the invitations Duo sent out for the party?" 

"No," Trowa replied resignedly, "but since Heero asked me the same question, I assume there's something in them I wouldn't approve of." 

"I don't think I was supposed to see them either," Quatre admitted, "but he sent them to everyone at work, so it was inevitable somebody would show me at some point." 

"Do I even want to ask?" 

"Probably not," Quatre laughed. "I just wondered whether the way he uses commas was something you both picked up as kids on the streets." 

Trowa sounded somewhat startled as he asked, "How does he use commas?" 

Seeing his father returning with their drinks, Quatre said, "After the party, we'll have to track down one of those invitations." 

Once Bernard had distributed the brandies and resumed his seat in the armchair facing his son and Trowa, the latter picked up where he'd left off. "We weren't interested in fighting in World War I -- 'the war to end all wars,' they called it, but to those of us trying to live our lives in peace it was mostly a bother -- and the draft only applied to our age group just before the war ended... it's also possible we neglected to register... so we avoided that. We lived a fairly peaceful life in a poor part of town, content with what we had, at least for a while. We were especially happy in our personal lives because we had discovered magic. 

"For a person's magical talent to awaken, they must be exposed to magic. Magical scholars have done a lot of speculating about what percentage of the supposedly mundane population is actually magically gifted but has never been exposed to enough magic to experience an awakening. The amount of magical exposure required, how it varies from one person to another, and whether the branch of magic to which a person is exposed makes any kind of difference, is also a matter of debate." Interestingly, Trowa's tone grew more firm, more assertive, as he began to speak of something more scholarly about which he was, presumably, an expert. Of course he must be considered an expert on his own personal history as well, but this topic seemed easier for him to discuss. In fact, as he went on, it seemed like more of a lecture than the story his words had previously been. 

"There are four branches of magical talent, at least as magic is practiced in most of North America: command, communion -- which they call communication these days -- divination, and necrovisua. Command magic, which is my primary area of skill -- and Duo's only area of skill -- involves manipulating the physical world around you. The demonstration I gave you at my house--" he nodded briefly to each of the Winner parents-- "was an example of command magic. 

"Communication magic, which is Heero's primary area of skill, is the magic of the mind: telepathy, influencing the minds of others, and so on. Divination magic, the branch in which I'm least skilled of those I can access, is, self-evidently, the magic of truth: learning what has happened, what is happening, and occasionally what will happen. 

"Necrovisual magic, which nobody among my friends has, has to do with the dead: speaking to spirits who have passed on, and dealing with certain energies left behind when living things die." 

Trowa paused for a moment, as if giving all this information a chance to sink in with his listeners. Bernard thought it made sense, as far as it went, and was sardonically glad to be confirmed in his guess that mind-reading was Heero's specific magical ability. 

"Hajime and Sano are necrovisual, though, aren't they?" Quatre asked. 

"Hajime's primary skill is communication, according to what he told me," Trowa replied. He paused thoughtfully before continuing, "Sano is an interesting case, though. There is a skillset some people consider a fifth branch of magic, though I've never liked to describe it that way. It's extremely rare, but some people are able to use all four branches of magic, where most magicians have access to three at most. This ability often comes without much training or practice, or even active awareness. We call that type of person a natural. And that's what Sano seems to be." 

Quatre looked very interested at this information, but Bernard, who had no idea who this Sano person was, wished Trowa would move on. And presently Trowa did. 

"Duo and I, as children, were acquainted with an old diviner woman who lived in our area of town and was undoubtedly the reason our magical abilities woke up. At first, of course, magic was very little more than a source of entertainment for us. There were certain spells that made our lives easier, but in those days we had no idea of magic's true potential." These last words were spoken darkly, and it seemed clear that, whatever 'magic's true potential' might be, Trowa knew it all too well by now. "We entertained friends with what they considered tricks, and gradually made other friends who knew the truth, but it was all very casual and unimportant to us at the time. 

"And then, in 1922, I started work at a plastics factory. You may be interested to hear, sir--" nodding at Bernard again-- "that the company I worked for in those days was Raberba Manufacturing." 

Bernard _was_ interested. What's more, he couldn't even try to deny his growing belief. That didn't necessarily mean he approved of Trowa, or Trowa dating Quatre, but he was becoming increasingly engaged in this unusual story. "The company _did_ get its start in Michigan," he recalled. 

Trowa nodded. "Plastics manufacture was a new industry at the time, so there was a learning curve for everyone, and they were always looking for new blood. My blood seemed to be the right kind, and it wasn't long before I was given a supervisory role with a significantly bigger paycheck than I'd ever had before. That was the beginning of our problems. 

"At first Duo was as happy as I was at the amount of money I was suddenly making. He even liked some of my new, richer friends for a while. But when I was promoted to General Overseer at the end of that year, and started making even _more_ money, and rose another level in society, Duo started to get sick of it. I was... fascinated by the new life I had access to with all my new money... and I'm afraid I may have lost track of who I was in the process. I bought a car Duo refused to ride in, rented an apartment Duo refused to live in, and moved in circles Duo was no longer willing to put up with." 

Trowa sighed. "Of course I had no idea what this might lead to -- no one could have predicted that -- but just as a man, I should have done better. 'The love of money is the root of all evil.' It wasn't the money so much as the esteem, but the saying still applies." 

Quatre's face had gone dark again, his father noticed. Because Trowa was being so hard on himself? His lament sounded perfectly rational to Bernard. 

"In the spring of 1923, an acquaintance of mine -- one of my old magical friends, not one of the new, rich ones -- made me a present of a certain artifact. Magical artifacts are objects that have absorbed power by being in the vicinity of magical activity. They affect any magic being practiced nearby, and can be used to boost the effectiveness of a spell if you use them correctly -- or if you don't, they can interfere very badly. I believe Albert, my acquaintance, was more concerned with getting rid of this particular artifact than giving me a gift, since it was an especially powerful one and very difficult to master. He didn't say so, but it had probably been ruining all his spellwork for however long he'd owned it." 

"What was it, exactly?" Catharine wondered, sounding intrigued. 

"A silver candlestick," answered Trowa. "It was old even at the time, and I thought it was very handsome. Eventually I changed my mind about that." 

"So it was Trowa in the lounge with the candlestick," Catharine murmured, smile-lines wrinkling beside her eyes. 

"Excuse me," Trowa said, and Bernard was surprised to hear some irritation in his tone, "what _is_ that?" 

Quatre chuckled, and took Trowa's hand again. "I'll tell you another time. We'll even watch the movie." 

Trowa frowned slightly, but merely continued his story. "Eventually Duo confronted me about my new lifestyle. He didn't like what I had become, and he didn't like what I'd become in relation to him. He was right, of course: I was becoming something unpleasant, and our friendship was falling apart. He accused me of no longer caring about him, and he had every reason to believe that was the case." 

At the pain in Trowa's voice and face during this last phrase, Catharine leaned forward in pity, setting her glass down on the table between herself and Bernard. She said nothing, however, undoubtedly both unsure what she _could_ say and eager to hear more. 

Trowa took a deep breath. "This is only the fourth time I've ever described what happened that day. Please forgive me if it's a little difficult to talk about." 

"Of course," said Catharine gently. Even Bernard nodded. He was beginning to understand his son's earlier concern about Trowa discussing things he perhaps wasn't ready to, and he didn't even know what had happened yet. 

After another deep breath, Trowa told him. "I was so upset by the accusation that I didn't care about my best friend, and stung at the same time by the truth of what he had to say about my lifestyle, I didn't think through what I did next. On the spur of that very bad moment, I came up with a spell that I thought would force him to feel what I felt, to share my emotions, so he would know exactly how much I did care about him still." 

"That sounds very much like assault," said Catharine reluctantly. 

Eyes closed, Trowa nodded. "It was a terrible thing to do, but what I intended was nothing compared to what actually happened." 

"You mentioned the candlestick thing would affect any magic performed around it..." Bernard said this in fascinated horror, surprised at his own emotional engagement and waiting almost breathlessly for what would come next. 

"That's right." Now Trowa spoke very softly, as if too horrified to put any proper volume into his words. "I hadn't mastered the artifact yet. No one could have in as short a time as I'd had with it. And it took my spell and warped it, turning it into a curse with a much different effect than the one I had in mind." 

There was a long moment of silence as the Winner parents digested the revelation that Trowa had _cursed_ his best friend. Duo had seemed hale and whole every time Bernard and Catharine had seen him, but between their first meeting with Heero's boyfriend back in June or so and the moment Trowa had reached in his story, _quite_ a bit of time had passed. 87 years, in fact. A lot of curse-related suffering could easily have taken place over such a long span. 

"During the course of our argument, I pretended to misunderstand him, and that I believed he was being petty and fake with me out of jealousy over money and a woman we both knew, rather than unhappy and concerned about me and my relationship with him. I made the comment, 'It's as if you were made of plastic.' The curse took that idea as if it were something I had specifically asked for: it turned him into plastic." 

Though it sounded dreadful, this statement was also not easily minutely understood, and Bernard believed, as both he and his wife stared somewhat blankly at Trowa, that they were both sorting through a number of possibilities for interpretation in a rapid and somewhat futile attempt to keep up. Quatre looked coldly grim, and held one of Trowa's hands tightly in both of his. 

"With this combination of circumstances, part of him might have turned to plastic -- limbs or bones, skin or hair -- or he might have become a life-sized statue made of plastic. Any of that would have made sense. But in fact he became a doll." Only because he sounded suddenly more distant did Trowa seem suddenly less deeply miserable, and the distance, Bernard believed, hailed from an attempt at looking at this scientifically (as it were) rather than emotionally. By attempting to discuss the physicalities and magical workings of the situation, and give them priority over its other aspects, Trowa might be able to get through this retelling more easily. It reminded Bernard of focusing on the mundanities of planning a funeral rather than the crushing, life-altering loss that led to the need for it -- a technique he had used himself in the past, and once again something that strengthened his growing belief in this entire story. 

"Plastic was just beginning to be used to make all sorts of non-industrial or -military products, including toys, and its uses for domestic items were what led to the plastics boom and the fortune of men like me. So it really does make the most sense that the idea of a 'plastic man' would immediately be associated, at least subconsciously, with the concept of a doll. So I turned Duo into a doll." 

He paused once more, either to let these newest details take their places with his listeners or to yet again regather his emotional fortitude for continuing. And Bernard didn't know what to think. This was more bizarre and troubling even than the story that Quatre had been infected by some kind of angry magical energy, and, though he would no longer claim not to believe it, he would be no more than a little surprised if Trowa finished by asking for money again. In the neighboring armchair, Catharine looked nothing but horrified and sympathetic. 

"As a doll, Duo had a limited ability to move, and the ability to speak, but nothing more. I believe because of my own frustration at his inability to feel what I felt, the curse robbed him of all ability to feel. He could see and hear, but taste, touch, smell... it was all lost to him. I took that all away from him." 

Feeling a chill, Bernard wondered how all of this might possibly apply to a _current_ relationship of Trowa's. For if this strange man had once accidentally transformed his best friend into a doll without feeling, what would keep him from doing it again to someone close? 

"Couldn't you immediately change him back?" Catharine wondered. "You're talking as if-- surely he didn't remain a doll, after that, for _all this time_?" 

Trowa took a long, deep breath, then let it out again. "He did." So short and simple a statement to encompass 87 years! "And that was because I... lost track of him. I might not have been able to change him back on my own in any case, but when I didn't even have him with me..." 

"You 'lost track of him?' You _misplaced_ Duo?" The seriousness of the discussion hadn't diminished, but despite this and Bernard's increased worry about how this might apply in modern times, he couldn't help finding this idea somewhat entertaining. And evidently it sounded in his voice, for both members of the family that were present shot him a reproving look. 

Trowa took no offense. In fact he sounded so guilty as he explained that Bernard almost regretted the slight amusement that had colored his tone. "He fell out a window and got picked up off the sidewalk by a child who was passing by before I could get out and down to him. I didn't know where he had gone. I'd barely gotten a look at him, saw him moving and heard his tiny doll voice, so searching for him was extremely difficult. Often when I asked people if they knew of a talking doll, they laughed at me. It was hard to get even the question taken seriously." 

"That's so strange to think about." Quatre grinned at Trowa as he said this. "I've never known you when people wouldn't be tripping over themselves to answer your questions." 

Trowa smiled wryly back at him, and at the same moment Catharine asked in some interest, "Do people do that?" 

Quatre gestured Trowa should go on, which he did. "I scoured the city from end to end. I devoted so much time and energy and attention to the search that eventually I lost my job at the factory, but at the time I almost didn't notice. I had some money saved, and sold some of the extravagant purchases I'd made in recent days. Eventually I stored the rest at a warehouse, gave up my apartment, and left town, still looking for Duo. I took the candlestick with me, because I knew it was connected to the curse, but I didn't know where to go or even how to search. I just wandered aimlessly for several years, living like a tramp, feeling less and less confident that I would ever see Duo again. I've had some very dark times in my life, but that was probably the worst." 

None of them spoke for a moment. Bernard had no new thoughts, despite Trowa's solemn pronouncement; he just wanted to hear the rest. 

"It didn't take long to realize that asking the non-magical if they had seen a doll that could talk and move got me nothing but polite skepticism at best, but the magical community was readier to help, if they didn't know any more than the rest of the population. So I asked magicians. Seeking out the local magicians everywhere I went was difficult at first, but eventually I developed a system. I would offer to do tasks in exchange for room and board while I was in the area. Someone would take me up on the offer, even if it wasn't the first or the second or the tenth person I talked to, and I would quietly and magically do their chores or mend their fence or paint their store. Then word would get around about what a hard worker I was and how miraculously quickly I got things done. Then the local magicians would seek me out." 

"This is surreal," Quatre murmured. 

"The _present_ is surreal," Trowa replied. "The 20's were nothing." He let out a sigh that might have had fragments of dark humor in it, and continued. "It was all command magic at first. A lot of manual labor can be performed very simply with command magic. But as I learned to work with the candlestick, my command magic grew stronger, and I found I could accomplish more with my other branches as well. The candlestick was very powerful, and tricky to use, and I was blundering along in the dark without ever making that my top priority, but still, as I became more attuned to it, I was starting to use magic in ways I didn't previously think were possible. 

"After several years of traveling the way I was, my reputation started to precede me. The magicians would meet me on the road into town instead of making me search for them, and they would request magical favors that became more complicated as time passed. I learned to use different branches of magic in combination, and set up new spells to solve old problems more easily. If I had it to do over again..." He paused with an expression of distaste, as if the idea of doing it over struck him as unfaceably bleak. "I would use an alias. If I'd ever truly believed the curse would be broken, I would have realized some of the ways my life would change when it did, and that I might not want to be '_The_ Trowa Barton' anymore. But at the time..." He shrugged. 

"After maybe fifteen years, I decided I was done wandering aimlessly. It hadn't accomplished anything, and I didn't think it was going to. I started making planned trips to cities where I could easily get in touch with magicians and perform magic that was beyond them in exchange for their help looking for Duo. Still nothing. And I didn't realize at first that doing this spread my fame further, faster. But it wasn't 'what Trowa Barton is looking for' that spread; it was 'what Trowa Barton did for me,' and any number of strange rumors." He sighed again, this time in remembered frustration. With a slight shake of the head, he went on. 

"The rest of this is 70 years long, give or take, so I'll try to abridge it. Eventually I was corresponding more with magicians than I was interacting with them in person, so I decided to settle into a home with a permanent address. I retrieved my stored items -- by then I had to pretend to be my own son--" 

"I don't think," Quatre broke in, "you ever actually mentioned you stopped aging." 

"I think we realized it about fifteen years ago, though," Catharine said with an eye-crinkling smile. "Go on, Trowa." She'd obviously forgotten completely about the drink at her side, and was hanging on Trowa's every word. Bernard realized as he assessed her demeanor that his was much the same. 

Trowa nodded to Catharine and obeyed. "The non-magical community around me was a problem from the beginning. Someone who looked the way I did -- you two saw what I looked like before the curse broke, but you never saw my cursed eyes without contact lenses in, which didn't exist in those days. Someone looking like that, living alone but often receiving mysterious visitors who were mostly strangers in the area... writing plenty of letters but never socializing with his neighbors... acting like an old hermit but apparently in his early 20's..." 

"It sounds as if you've brought the story up to about the time Catharine and I were born," Bernard remarked. "If society then was anything like what I remember from my childhood, I'm not surprised your neighbors were suspicious." 

Quatre wondered, "But _were_ they suspicious? Or was this just you being paranoid?" 

"I don't know." Trowa answered so readily, he'd clearly been expecting the question. "But over the following couple of decades, I lived in six or seven different homes." 

Quatre and his mother both made sympathetic sounds. 

"Finally I forced myself to really settle down. I was so adept at jumping -- traveling by magic -- that I traveled that way to any appointments, and never showed my face in my actual neighborhood. I was in touch with many of the major names in magic throughout North America, and I'd become very powerful and experienced. I escaped the demanding people who'd followed me from one home to another over the years -- though they found me again eventually -- by making my first dark jump to a town on the east coast I'd never visited before and buying a house there." 

Forestalling the question, he explained in a tone of aside, "A dark jump is magical travel to a place you've never been and don't have someone else's mental picture of. It's very difficult, and requires a lot of research into the place so you can understand it well enough to get there. Even I have only done a few dark jumps in my lifetime. There's always the risk that the impression of a place you've gotten from reading someone's journal or a book set there isn't accurate enough, or the place has changed too much since the pictures you're looking at were taken. Usually a jump simply won't work in that case, but there are some rare bad consequences to dark jumping." 

Again the lecturing tone sounded stronger, more certain, and, if possible, less self-accusatory than everything else Trowa said. Bernard was beginning to fathom why his son gazed so raptly at this man when he spoke of magic; Trowa seemed, if not an entirely different person, at least the better part of the person he was at those moments. 

"That was when my celebrity really exploded. I was doing bigger magical favors more selectively by then. I stabilized a mine. I reworked a railroad town's entire infrastructure. I rescued a kidnapped child. I became a household name in magical circles." 

"Were there no other powerful and experienced magicians?" asked Bernard. Intending no insult, he added, "Why were _you_ so famous?" 

"There _were_ other powerful and experienced magicians," Trowa said with a pained look, "and they were famous too. But they lived their lives and died, or went in and out of fashion, or lost strength over the years, or made mistakes that lost them their popularity. But I didn't change. I was startling to look at, I didn't age, and the services I provided only got bigger and more amazing over time. Magicians told their children about me, and then those children grew up to hear about me diverting a tornado between two towns. 

"It's customary in the magical community for a service provider to work with another person. The word that's usually used is 'partner,' and the person _is_ sometimes a partner in terms of assisting with actual work, but most of the time the position has more to do with security. They're a bodyguard, or a witness to the proceedings, or just a second person to act as a deterrent against attack or fraud. It's a practical and useful arrangement for a lot of magicians, but it's more traditional than anything. Some magicians can get away with it -- especially if they work with non-magical clients -- but in the magical community, it's usually considered odd and inappropriate for a magician to make house calls without a partner. 

"And I never had a partner. The only thing anyone knew about my past was wild rumor; it was as if I'd always been there and always would be, doing amazing things apparently easily. I was an unusual type of celebrity." 

"You saved towns from a _tornado_?" Trowa's boyfriend demanded. "Why didn't you tell me that before?" 

Apparently in response to the expression of almost disbelieving admiration and affection on Quatre's face, Trowa replied in some surprise and pleasure, "I would have if I'd thought..." 

"You are _too modest_." Quatre shook his head with a grin that still held those previous emotions. "And I think what you're trying to say about how magicians felt about you is that you were the first rock star of the magical community." 

Slowly Trowa nodded. "I think that's an accurate comparison. While Elvis Presley took non-magical America by storm, I did the same in the magical community. I doubt Abner Herzberg--" evidently plucking a famous magical name out of his past-- "ever had people's daughters thrown at him." 

Bernard couldn't help laughing. "Daughters, or panties?" 

With a fierce blush Trowa protested, "'Rock star' is a _comparison_. No one has ever thrown their underwear at me." And the thoughtful look Quatre's face now took on seemed to indicate that might be changing any day. 

Catharine laughed too, but with a touch of sorrow from that soft heart of hers. "But you _did_ make a mistake. Didn't that affect anyone's opinion of you?" 

"It didn't, because nobody knew about it." Trowa might not have grasped at this point so tenaciously if it hadn't been helping him away from Bernard's joke at his expense and Quatre having embarrassing ideas. "At first I thought it would make magicians less willing to help me if they knew what I'd done, and later I... I just didn't have the courage to talk about it. I confessed to almost no one, during all those 87 years, what I'd done. There were times I even feared someone would find out somehow, and I would lose what little I had." 

"Paranoid," Quatre murmured. 

"I didn't realize how good it would feel to tell someone at last." Trowa squeezed Quatre's hand again. "If I had known, I might have told the story more often back then. I might have told _everyone_ back then, and to hell with the consequences. But instead I held onto it and let it eat away at me, and..." He raised helpless hands, one of them still in Quatre's. "People loved me, and I hated myself. I could do anything for them, and nothing for Duo. They would try to set me up with their unmarried relatives, but I had _cursed_ the only person I ever loved." Hearing Trowa admit he'd once loved Duo in a way that could be set opposite the matchmaking intentions of his fans did not bother Bernard nearly so much now as it would have at the beginning of this conversation. "The celebrity made the contrast almost more than I could bear. I started to lose faith." 

Catharine's brows went up. "Only then?" 

"I don't think I ever _truly_ believed I would find Duo and be able to break the curse, except maybe right at the beginning, right after I lost him. But for about 35 years, I worked at it as if I _did_ believe in it. After that, what I was doing from day to day gradually changed. I didn't send out as many letters, or tell as many people in them what I was looking for. I still followed every possible lead, but I never had any hope they would get me anywhere -- and they never did. I studied magic intensively, and worked on improving my connection with the candlestick, so I would be prepared when I found him... but I was doing that instead of actively looking for him. I studied curses and accidental magic, and I researched the organization that had originally made an artifact out of the candlestick. And none of it helped. 

"I knew he must still be out there somewhere, because I never started aging again. But I think what I truly believed was that it would just go on forever -- that I would keep living, searching and researching and practicing and becoming more pointlessly skilled at magic _forever_ as a punishment for what I did to him." The anguish in these words, so real, so _present_, made it obvious that, though the time referred to had passed, the pain of that long-occupied frame of mind remained. 

"Anyone would," Catharine advised him gently. "It's a miracle you got through so many years without doing much worse." 

"Exactly," said Quatre. He laid his head on Trowa's shoulder and rubbed a little, insistent, as if to punctuate his agreement. Trowa put an arm around him, and Quatre nuzzled in closer. 

"Thank you," Trowa said. "I kept going, but I wasn't much of a person anymore. Time dragged on, and I never found any sign of Duo. You would think a magical talking, moving doll that thought for itself would be easy to find, especially over such a long time, but I found out later that Duo was careful. Revealing he could talk lost him his home more than once, so he would wait until the child he belonged to seemed ready to accept him as a friend instead of just a toy. And even then, it would often be only the child who would know, so word never spread about the magical doll. He couldn't have hidden from me better if he'd been doing it deliberately." 

"He talked to me and Heero right away," said Quatre musingly. 

"He told me he was getting tired of being careful. He'd been taken to Goodwill so often in response to him talking; he decided that time to risk it right away and get it over with before he became attached. I wonder sometimes, though, if he didn't subconsciously sense something about Heero..." 

"That early?" Quatre looked pensive. "And could he even sense things like that as a doll?" 

"Aren't you getting ahead of the story again?" Bernard broke in before Trowa could answer. "I thought we were still losing faith in the 50's." 

"Losing faith was a process that crossed the next 40 years. And then..." Trowa smiled. "Do you know it was the _internet_ that started to wake me up again?" 

"Cat videos will restore anyone's faith," Catharine remarked with her eye-crinkles again. Bernard was so fond of her eye-crinkles. 

Trowa cleared his throat. "I'm sure you remember what the internet was like starting out. Cat videos weren't around for... a while." 

Quatre had slumped somewhat in his lean against Trowa, but now he sat up straight and fixed his boyfriend with a delighted look of false accusation. "But you _did_ watch them! When they came around!" 

"It's... difficult to be on the internet and _not_ watch cat videos," Trowa admitted. 

"Do you like cats? Do you _want_ cats? It would be extremely easy to get you some kittens for the house." 

"Familiarization makes that... complicated. We'll have to talk about it later." 

Quatre gave a phony pout. "_Duo_ would have said, 'You're the only Quat I want.'" 

"I know." Trowa was blushing again; it seemed to set his freckles on fire. "I thought about saying it, but I couldn't." 

Complacently Quatre leaned forward and kissed him on the chin, then nestled down against him again. 

"The internet...?" Bernard prompted, restraining a laugh. 

"The internet provided new avenues. At first it did nothing to help, but it was promising, and I regained some of my old resolve. I gradually changed my correspondence to email, and I joined any number of mailing lists about supernatural occurrences -- forums, later, as the internet evolved. And search engines were so... Every day I would dial up and type a whole list of phrases one by one into AOL's directory, which wasn't even a proper search engine yet. Every day I had that faint little hope that something might have changed, that someone somewhere might have put up a website about the talking doll they'd had as a child. I never found anything at all with 'Duo Maxwell cursed doll,' but if _someone_ would just document _some_ experience with Duo, it would give me a starting point, and I could trace him from there." 

"I take it this disappointed you eventually as well." Bernard too had witnessed the evolution of the internet, and had always appreciated it in a business sense. What it must have meant to Trowa he could only dimly imagine. 

"Actually," said Trowa with the air of telling the night's first good news, "it _did_ eventually lead me to Duo." 

Despite knowing Duo had been restored to his humanity, that Trowa's coloration had returned to normal, and that therefore the curse must have been broken; despite having done the math and known the magician must be approaching the part of his story where that event had taken place, Bernard felt a little jump of heart at these words. It was like the excitement he felt while watching a good movie with a well constructed plot when something he'd known to be inevitable occurred yet still managed to stir him up. Observing his wife leaning a little farther forward, he knew he wasn't alone. 

"But I won't say," Trowa went on, "I wasn't back in a pretty bad place by the time it did. It wasn't as bad as those 40 years, but it was bad. If I'd met anyone other than Quatre, I never would have pulled out of it." 

"Yes, you would," Quatre said firmly. "You're stronger than you think you are." 

"I'm grateful I never have to find out what would have happened." Trowa pressed his face to the top of Quatre's head and paused there a moment. Then he continued in a tone as solemn as such long-delayed news deserved. "On March 20th of this year, a post appeared on one of the forums about magic I tracked. It said, _A friend and I found a doll (looks like a Barbie "Ken" but with real human hair) who talks and moves on his own. Claims to be a human placed under a curse by a friend, probably by accident, in 1923. Says his friend was never powerful enough to cast a spell that could last that long. My friend and I know nothing about magic. Is a spell like this even possible? Have checked doll for wires and found nothing, but still think it's probably a prank. Has anyone else encountered anything like this?_" He recited the post as if he would never forget a single word, and Quatre looked impressed. 

Then they all sat silent for a few moments, the three non-magicians probably imagining how Trowa must have felt seeing something like that, and the two more empathetic of them probably doing a better job of it. What kind of beautiful stab to the heart must that have been? Had the entire 87-year search come to rest with all its weight and misery on top of those words that promised its end? After so long and such continual failure, he must have had at least an instant of pure disbelief... but _placed under a curse by a friend, probably by accident, in 1923_ could not be a coincidence. 

Once more Trowa had a distant smile on his lips, and eyes focused not entirely on the present. "It's generally agreed that, in every magician's life, at some very emotional time, they produce magic more effective and powerful than any other time in their life -- something they can only do once, and never again, and they wonder for the rest of their life whether they truly did it at all." 

"Like adrenaline letting people lift cars off their loved ones," Catharine put in. 

Trowa nodded. "In 48 hours..." He let the length of time linger in the air for a moment, though Bernard suspected Trowa himself would be the only one to appreciate its significance. "In two days' time, I put together an impossible spell. A spell no one has ever cast before or even thought of, and something I still, seven months later, can't decide whether or not I actually managed." 

Now he shook his head in disbelief. "To divine something, you have to have _some_ information already. And even with the candlestick's power, I've always been an indifferent diviner. And divining the future is uncertain at best in the first place. But somehow, I cast a spell that allowed me to _dark jump_ to the place where the _completely unknown_ author of the forum post _would be_ on the evening of March 22nd. It's... it was... impossible. But somehow I did it." 

Bernard chuckled. "So instead of just replying to the post as a normal person would, you used impossible magic to blindly jump through space and probability." 

Surprisingly, Trowa weakly returned the chuckle. "I did. I couldn't wait. I knew it had to be Duo they were talking about. What if they didn't check the forum again? What if they were reluctant to give me their address? And when I was so close, I couldn't stand to put off finding him any longer. So I jumped to where the post author would be, and I familiarized myself with the area, and at the time when I knew they would come, they came." 

"And then he weirded us out," Quatre declared, sitting up straight again. "You have no idea how strange it was for this sexy colorless guy in coattails to meet us outside this restaurant and ask out of the blue whether we were 'the ones with the talking doll.'" And if he'd considered Trowa sexy from the very first moment, Bernard supposed this whole thing had been inevitable. 

"I've got it from here," Quatre said next, kissing Trowa's nose this time. "Let me know if I get anything wrong." And when Trowa nodded assent, Quatre took up the story. "Watching Trowa and Duo meet each other again after all that time... it was mind-blowing, and Heero and I didn't even know what they'd been through at that point. Trowa told us, but we didn't understand the way we do now. I can't even describe it, so I won't try. 

"Trowa told me later that curses -- even when they're accidental, apparently -- have a kind of... _appropriateness_ about them, and about the process of breaking them. Trowa accused Duo of being fake, as if he were made of plastic, and the curse turned him into plastic. He wanted to make Duo feel what he felt, and the curse took away Duo's ability to feel anything. He accused Duo of pursuing a woman he didn't love, so to break the curse Duo had to _truly_ love someone." 

"Wait..." Bernard began. 

"True love conquers all?" Even Catharine sounded skeptical. 

"Well, yes," Quatre grinned, "but there was more to it than that. The candlestick had carvings on it of cycles of the moon, and the group that turned it into an artifact was a moon-worshiping magical cult." 

"The ones who-- Wait, was _this_ the artifact that--" 

Quatre did not allow his father to finish. "That's right. And it had a connection with the moon because it spent so long with the moon-worshipers. So the curse, and breaking the curse, had to do with the moon as well." 

"Trowa's skin!" 

"I never believed anemia could make you that pale and leave you still standing." 

"Yes, so Trowa became a beautiful lunar child with moons for eyes. And he did a brilliant set of divinations to find out that, to break the curse--" here Quatre began ticking off points on his fingers-- "Duo needed to stay within the magical influence of someone with magical abilities, who he was developing a true emotional bond with, for a complete lunar cycle." 

"You got it all right," Trowa murmured. 

At the same time Catharine said in much the same tone, "Hmm. True love really _does_ conquer all." 

"I have other points of analysis," Quatre told his boyfriend quietly, "but they'll embarrass you." 

At his wife's words, Bernard felt the fading of the last of his long-held bitterness that Quatre and Heero weren't together. The 'true emotional bond' between Heero and Duo had been confirmed by _magic_, and had ended an age of suffering. He couldn't wish that broken up, even for the sake of what he'd long considered a near-perfect pairing. Heero would be relieved the next time he read Bernard's mind. And Duo wouldn't have to try to defend their relationship any farther. Immediate approval of Trowa as Quatre's boyfriend did not necessarily follow, but Bernard was much readier now to entertain the notion. 

"Wait," he said again, belatedly, once these thoughts had run their course, "what does that mean, 'stay within their magical influence for a full lunar cycle?' This is Heero's magical influence, and Duo still a doll?" 

And when he'd heard _that_ part of the story, and what Heero had been willing to go through for Duo's sake -- a retelling that prompted real, hearty laughter from him and his wife, in the which Quatre joined them -- he no longer needed any convincing that Heero and Duo together was the only right outcome of this strange scenario. 

The chapter that followed pleased him less. The destruction of the artifact had been a necessary step, he agreed, but that Trowa had lacked the courage to take it upon himself seemed to indicate another serious character flaw. To Trowa's credit, though, he did appear to recognize this defect in himself, along with others manifest during his story. Everyone had personal issues, of course, and that Trowa admitted to his and seemed willing to work to improve himself spoke rather better than otherwise. Still, the true scope of recent magical disasters startled and worried Bernard. 

The end of the narrative came as a vague surprise, and felt anticlimactic. To wrap up with the forlorn admission on Quatre's part, "And I still don't feel like I've done everything I need to," seemed a very inconclusive sort of conclusion. Of course the end of every story was the beginning of the next, but Bernard felt emotionally dissatisfied on hearing this one. Beyond that, he had a sort of decision to make, and hadn't realized how pleased he'd been all along to be putting it off. 

"Well," he said slowly, "that's a lot of information." 

"It is," Catharine agreed. "I don't think I've been so taken up with a story in a very long time, not even _Downton Abbey_." 

Bernard nodded pensively. Then, somewhat grudgingly, he admitted, "And I even believe it all." 

"It would be impossible not to!" Catharine raised a hand in a gesture of mock warning. "You'd better not have cast a spell on us to make us believe it." 

Trowa gave her a slight smile. He and Quatre looked tense all of a sudden, doubtless because they could feel judgment descending. That was what this had all been about, after all: revealing the whole truth to Bernard and Catharine so they could make a more educated decision on their feelings regarding the relationship before them. 

Bernard went on, still slowly. "I believe in magic. I believe what you've told me about your history, Trowa. I even think I understand why you've made some of your mistakes. In some ways, magician or not, and no matter how old you are, you seem just as human as the rest of us. And since it seems you're doing what you can to correct the flaws of character that led to those mistakes, I can even respect you. 

"And I understand, now, why you weren't open with us from the start. This is a lot to take in. I'm not sure how I would act in the same situation, but it might be similar to how you did. And I don't know whether you were planning to tell us all of this sooner or later, but you have to understand that, from our point of view, it seems like you withheld important information and made up lies to cover it until you were _forced_ to tell the truth because you needed something. Even knowing the details now, that makes it difficult to trust you. What I'm saying is, I'm still not sure about how I feel about you dating my son, after the lies you told us before and the... complications of your life." 

The two young men seated on the couch shifted nervously. Trowa's face, if only in a restrained manner, held a mixture of emotions -- hurt among them -- and Quatre's had gone a bit pink. 

Here Catharine took up the ongoing statement, but steered it toward the emotional. "Quatre has a lot to give. I'm trying not to embarrass him," she added, "but I have to describe him as I know him. He's a devoted, generous, persistent young man. And he's dated a lot of people who took advantage of his generosity without giving anything in return. I have all the sympathy in the world for you, Trowa, but it seems you may be that same type of person all over again. You obviously need so much from him, and I worry that may blind you to what he needs from you." 

Now Quatre was forced to speak up. His cheekbones had become very rosy indeed. "If it weren't for Trowa's support, I wouldn't be here. He has been _exactly_ what I've needed since I was cured. He's been so forgiving and supportive... I would never be recovering from being possessed the way I am if it weren't for him." Bernard noticed he had nothing to offer on the subject of Trowa's previous reticence. 

"You're forgetting Heero's contribution," the blushing Trowa murmured. 

"No, I'm not," Quatre replied a little impatiently. "I'm just talking about _your_ contribution right now. You've treated me much better than I deserve." 

Blush deepening, Trowa said even more quietly, "That's how you always treat me." 

"Stop that," Quatre whispered. 

"You first," Trowa whispered back. 

Catharine watched this exchange carefully, and gave a little nod. Evidently she, at least, was cautiously hopeful. 

"Now listen, Trowa." Bernard leaned forward as his wife had done several times already. "I can't threaten you realistically, I can't reprimand you, and I can't make demands. All I can do is request. And I ask that you don't make my son unhappy. No one he's dated has ever made him happy, but I'll settle at first for you simply not making him miserable. The two of you don't actually need my approval, but you should know that I believe you may earn it eventually if you work hard and are honest with us from now on." 

Trowa nodded gravely. "I deeply appreciate your willingness to bear with me, and I'm sorry for the difficulties I've caused. Thank you." Then expectantly he looked to Catharine. 

With her sweetest expression, she said, "I _can_ threaten you. And if you find it unrealistic, you don't know how mothers work. So do right by my boy, or face the consequences." 

Trowa looked as if he didn't know whether to smile, even laugh, or school his face into the deepest gravity. Probably bowing to his own natural inclination, he chose the latter. "Your warning is understood. I'm grateful for the opportunity." 

A long silence followed, during which Bernard considered ordering Trowa not to turn his son into a doll, not to have him destroy any more powerful artifacts, and not, above all things, to break his heart; he decided eventually he'd said as much as he feasibly could for now, and therefore remained wordless. Eventually, though, he looked around at the room in which they sat, with its old-fashioned decorations that yet must seem young to Trowa, and remembered the mundane details of this after-dinner tradition. He couldn't consider himself entirely satisfied with the proceedings and their outcome, but he believed they'd accomplished quite a bit this evening. So he rose and began collecting glasses. 

He still needed to process what he'd heard tonight, and not only in relation to Quatre's love life, but in relation to how he viewed the entire world. He had to admit that if the situation persisted, if Trowa joined the family in part or even literally, it would make for an interesting little Winner secret that they had among their ranks not only a real magician, but apparently one of the most powerful magicians in history. 

Catharine had risen too when Bernard started bustling about, and now as she turned her generally pleasant expression on the two young men, they rose in their turn. "I'm so glad you could come tonight, Trowa," she said. "It's been intriguing and enlightening." 

Bernard, finished setting the gathered cups on the sideboard, also turned more fully toward his guest and his son. "That's right. We appreciate you taking the time." And he reached out toward Trowa. 

"And I appreciate you taking the time to listen," Trowa replied, shaking the offered hand. "Thank you for having me." Then for a brief moment, his typically unfailing courtesy seemed to leave him stranded as he and Quatre threw each other a quick, uncertain look. Bernard had the impression that the two of them, as a couple, were on the verge of telling him something more, something significant, yet hesitated. At least in this case, it seemed to be something shared between them; and Bernard supposed Trowa _had_ confessed a good deal more this evening than probably any of them had expected. It still raised his hackles, though, to consider further withheld information. 

But they said their goodbyes in a polite and amicable enough manner. Bernard had an arm around his wife's waist as they waved their guest out of the room. And as the two young men walked away, heads together, Bernard heard Trowa say, "I'm going home." 

"Take me with you," Quatre requested. 

"Of course." And presently, after some unintelligible speech in that magical language of his, all aural signs of their presence in the house disappeared. 

"Quatre's moving in with him," Catharine murmured. 

"What?!" wondered Bernard in dismay. "How do you know that?" 

"They _almost_ just told us." Catharine's smile was forlorn and fond. "They probably decided we weren't ready to hear it yet." And her eye-crinkles, along with the expression on her lips, became just a touch more sad. She added in an even quieter murmur, "The last one to leave..." 

"He may come back. Some of them have." Even Bernard didn't know whether he spoke hopefully or morosely. 

"Don't wish for it, my dear." 

Releasing his wife, Bernard turned back to the sideboard and started peering at the glasses, trying to determine which one had been his. He believed, under the circumstances, he needed just a little more brandy.


	225. La Confrérie de la Lune Révéré Part 0²

  


_Dear, Awesome Person,_

_You are invited to an amazing party, that is basically my doing, but is also co-hosted by one of my best friends, Quatre Winner. This party is happening for several, very good reasons, which are as follows:_

_1\. To celebrate something, that happened earlier this year, which I'm not going to give details about here, but definitely needs to be celebrated._

_2\. To be a housewarming party for Quatre's hot boyfriend, and another one of my best friends, Trowa Barton, who you may or may not know, and whose new house the party is at. (Trowa says, that I'm not allowed to request presents for him, but he's not getting this email, so he doesn't know what I'm requesting. He has practically no furniture, or household stuff, since his old house BURNED DOWN, so if you want to bring him something, and don't tell him I told you, DO IT.)_

_3\. To celebrate Trowa's birthday, which was a month ago, but which we never celebrated right at the time. (If you want to bring him something, you can pretend it's a birthday present!)_

_4\. To celebrate Quatre getting out of a bad situation, which I also don't need to give details about, but which we're all really happy he was able to get out of!_

_5\. To let Quatre make a sort of formal apology, (by paying for this whole thing,) which some of us don't think he needs to do, but he thinks he needs to, for anything he said, or did, in that bad situation, that made anyone else unhappy._

_6\. To give me a chance to hang out with all my new friends, and introduce anyone of them, who haven't met each other, to each other!_

_If not one, single one of those very good reasons, seems like a good enough reason for you to come to this party, you need to rethink your life. Plus, we're going to have all sorts of food (including birthday cake, that Heero's making, and if you haven't tasted Heero's cooking yet, you also need to rethink your life), and good drinks, and play some great games._

There followed the date and time of the event, Trowa's address, a further exhortation for the recipient to attend, a surprisingly flourishless closing, and a post-script reiterating the point in even more forceful language. It was, overall, a very effective communication, and almost never failed to make Heero laugh out loud. He tried to avoid doing so in front of Duo, of course, and mostly only reread the thing whenever he was a little bit down, which generally happened out of Duo's presence anyway. 

He'd reread it just now, and was shutting off the computer reluctantly, because the day of the party had arrived, the hour of the party was approaching, and he needed some cheer to help brace him for the prospect. 

Since Duo hadn't yet mastered the art of blind carbon copying, Heero had a fairly good idea of whom he would encounter tonight (assuming they weren't too busy rethinking their lives), and he predicted the Winner Plastics employees would have the highest attendance percentage of the various groups on the list. Duo had convinced Quatre to let him send out this invitation a week and a half ago so as to give people as long as possible (without setting the party for a later date) to clear their schedules for tonight -- which also meant the gossips had had eleven days of fresh frenzying over phrases like 'one of my best friends' and 'Quatre's hot boyfriend.' To meet the latter, to try all over again to winkle the truth out of any of the people involved, to get more fodder for their endless speculations, the curious Winner Plastics folks would probably die before they missed a chance. 

Of course Heero had plenty of practice putting up with the work crowd, even at parties, so he wasn't terribly worried about that. Then, some people he counted as friends -- including his sister and her husband, and Treize and Zechs -- had also been invited, and of spending time with them, even in combination, he wasn't afraid. But then there was the second half of the list. Some of them might have been requested by Quatre (or possibly even Trowa, though Heero highly doubted that), but it was still a large set of people whose names Heero didn't recognize and that he wasn't sure how Duo had met and become friendly enough with to demand they come to a party. And Heero would probably have to be introduced to most if not all of them. 

But he would put up with it for Duo's sake -- and for Quatre's, since, as Duo had mentioned in the email, the evening would be something more than a standard party to him as well. Hell, even for Trowa's sake, since Duo's not-so-subtle hints might win him some much-needed presents. 

The present _Duo_ had bought for Trowa, not a much-needed item but still one Heero thought Trowa would have a good use for, appeared suddenly very nearby in its bright new dressing of multi-colored star-sprinkled wrapping paper and a huge red bow. Readable in Duo's head was the fact that he had proceeded, not admitting it aloud, with the plan Heero had expressed disapproval of: putting a load of shiny star-shaped confetti inside the wrapping paper so as to cause a huge glittery mess when the gift was opened. Heero opted to say nothing about this, but _he_ would _not_ be the one cleaning it up. 

"What do you think?" Duo asked eagerly. "Not bad for someone who hasn't wrapped anything in paper for ninety years, huh?" 

Taking the rectangular package in hand from where Duo had been holding it right in his face, Heero examined it at a more propitious distance and from various angles. "Yes, you did really well, especially on the corners." 

Duo radiated pleasure and satisfaction, and Heero could tell that his joy ran deeper than mere pride in skillful handling of paper, tape, and scissors. He was extremely happy about several aspects of the situation, including that his very first purchase with his very first paycheck earned in his new human life had been a birthday present for his best friend. 

Heero liked that too, though he remained silent about it. He considered the present, which had been rather expensive, a symbol of Duo's willingness to forgive and move on after a painful event in a relationship -- and he couldn't help finding that significant. 

Duo was also pleased about the nature and origin of the gift. Heero, having combined two memories -- Duo's statement, _"He was pretty good at clarinet back in the day,"_ and Trowa's text, _I haven't played for years_ \-- with the fact that the extremely musical Quatre would sooner or later be moving in with Trowa, had suggested this particular gift when Duo, overwhelmed even more than usual at the staggering number of possible purchases he could make with his first paycheck, had wondered in something of a daze what he should buy first. 

The suggestion had delighted Duo as an indication of increased friendship between Heero and Trowa; it seemed to demonstrate a growing understanding not only of Trowa personally and what would help him reestablish a life removed from curses and penance, but of Trowa's relationship with Quatre and what might strengthen it. Though Heero didn't feel he was owed any special credit for this, he did consider it true, and didn't really mind when Duo insisted on including him in the 'from' slot on the tag. Though he refused to take credit for the confetti any more than clean it up. 

He handed the boxed clarinet back at last and added, "You wrapped that better than I could have." 

"I miiiight have watched a tediously detailed YouTube video about wrapping presents yesterday," Duo admitted. Of course Heero already knew this, but he was working hard to keep from mentioning aloud anything he picked up from Duo's head so as to avoid making him uncomfortable. "And anyway, you made the cake, and I couldn't have done _that_." 

"Cake mix," said Heero with a smile as he stood from the chair by the computer. "You wouldn't have any problems." 

"Yeah, but I might not have the patience," Duo replied, mirroring the expression and reflecting that for the six dozen cupcakes Heero had made, to match and eke out a cake far too small for everyone at the party, he would _definitely_ not have had the fortitude. Even merely trying to help Heero frost them had only been able to hold his interest for about five cupcakes before he'd turned his attention to creative arrangements of sprinkles instead. Cookery of any sort was clearly not something he was cut out for. 

Heero chuckled and leaned over to kiss Duo briefly. "We should probably start carrying everything down to the car." 

"This first!" Duo hefted Trowa's present like the hard-won prize that, in a way, it was. 

"You've got two hands," Heero told him sardonically, and headed out of the room. 

As they set out with Tupperwares full of cupcakes in stacks, one with a giftwrapped clarinet balanced on top, Duo asked with serious casualness, "Do you think Quatre's ready yet? I kinda got the feeling he might be making The Big Announcement about moving in with Trowa tonight." 

"I honestly don't know," Heero replied. "He's been working hard--" 

"Harder than anyone else thinks he needs to," Duo put in. 

"--and I think he's feeling a lot better by now," Heero continued with a nod of agreement. "But he has his own standards to live up to, and I don't know if he's there yet." 

Their conversation had to pause as a couple of fellow apartment tenants, whom Heero recognized only by sight, fell into step with them. Evidently Duo not only knew their names, but had invited them to the party, so there was confirmation of attendance to be sought and given. In fact the two were on their way, like Heero and Duo, down to the parking lot so as to leave early -- in their case to pick something up on the way as a housewarming gift. By the time they parted to head for their separate vehicles, Duo was gleeful. 

"This is going to be so awesome," he gloated. "Trowa's going to be flooded with stuff." 

Heero shook his head with a smile, setting his burdens on top of his car in order to unlock it. "Only you could get people to come to a total stranger's house and bring him presents." He added as he began stacking the cupcakes in the back and pondering whether or not to seatbelt them in, "That'll be an incentive for Quatre to move in sooner: if anyone brings Trowa anything Quatre doesn't like, it'll drive him crazy until he can get in there and sell it so he can replace it with something better." 

Duo laughed triumphantly. "Maybe that was my plan all along!" 

"Sure," Heero allowed in a tone of amused doubt. 

"So let's go!" Duo, having deposited his cupcakes next to Heero's in the back, opened the driver's side door impatiently and leaned in to set the wrapped present in the passenger seat. "We've got friends to force into cohabitation!" 

Again Heero shook his head. "We've got to go back up for the cake," he reminded him. "Or at least I do." 

"I'll come with you," Duo declared. "For moral support." 

"OK," Heero allowed. "Cake, moral support, and friends." 

"Sounds like a perfect night!" 

And whatever Heero might feel about parties specifically, in general he had to agree.


End file.
